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ROSABOWER: 



A COLLECTION OF 



ESSAYS AND Ml'sCELLANIES. 



,.A 



w^cKlarrabee. 



R. p. THOMPSON, PRINTER, 
1855. 







Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, 
BY W. C. LAERABEE, 

in the Clerk's OflSce of the District Court of the United States for the 
District of Ohio. 



Gift 

Judg3 iind Mrs. I R. Hitt 

June ^3 1936 



CONTENTS. 



The Boweh Page 5 

Bareex Hill 11 

Epheaim Brown 17 

The Emigrant 23 

Mount Auburn Cemetery 29 

Pro\tdenoe 37 

The White Moltjtains 46 

The Voice of the Past 52 

" There the Weary aee at Rest " 63 

The Spiritual 69 

Mutations of Humanity 80 

The Tolung Bell 87 

The Moral Sublime 89 

Going Home 98 

The Forest Sanctuary 105 

The Falung Leaves 109 

The Burial of Balch Ill 

Passing Away 120 

Spring 126 

The Absent One 128 

The Changes of Earth 131 

Thoughts on Youth and Age 134 

Summer 145 

To an Absent Child 150 

The Valley in the Mountain-land 152 

Thoughts on the Career of Mahomet 159 

The Child's Funeeai, 168 

May-day , . . . 171 

Substance and Shadow 178 

Little Rosa 182 

The Heavens 185 

The JLniature 191 

The Poets of the West I94 

The Excellence of Mind 210 

The Sacred Associations op Palestine 215 

The Seasons 219 

The Reinterment of Howard 223 

Autumn 228 

3 



4 CONTENTS. 

The Memory of an Eaelt Feeeito Page 232 

Niagara 237 

Greenwood 240 

A Ramble by the Sea-shore 244 

The Old Homestead 249 

The Backwoods Expedition 253 

An Indian Town 253 

The Journey 257 

A Hunto-maniac 259 

A Dinner Party 260 

The Encampment 2G0 

Ascent of Katahden 262 

A Perilous Adventure 267 

A Sabbath in the Wilderness 270 

Invitation 273 



ROSABOWER: 

A COLLECTION OF 



THE BOWER. 

Will you come, gentle reader, to my bower, and take 
a seat by my side, and let us commune with nature and 
with ourselves? The place is beautiful — beautiful as 
ideal visions of fairy-land. Its influences are soothing 
as dreams of love. To reach the sequestered retreat I, 
many years ago, with the fair and gentle being, 

" Who unto my youth was given, 
More than all things else to love me," 

and the sweet little ones whom God had given us, and 
whose smiles threw sunshine along our pathway, wan- 
dered many a weary day, and compassed many a devious 
round. My cottage-home, on the Atlantic hill-side, dis- 
appeared beneath the eastern horizon. The cities of the 
Atlantic grew dim in the cloudy distance. The rough 
and rocky Kennebec, the clear and gentle Merrimac, the 
softly-flowing Connecticut, the magnificent Hudson, the 
dashing Delaware, and the long and winding Susque- 
hanna were left behind in the "land of dreams." For 
many a day I glided along the waters of the "blue Juni- 
ata;" I ascended the Alleghanies; I descended to the 
valley of the fair and lovely Ohio — "la belle riviere." 
On its waters, amidst verdant hills and fairy landscapes, 

1* 5 



6 THE BOWER. 

I held my way for nearly a thousand miles. Up the me- 
andering Wabash, amidst landscapes beautiful as were 
ever daguerreotyped on poet's soul; by vales lovely as 
Tempe or Cashmere ; along fields fair as that 

" Of Enna, where Proserpina, gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
Was carried off;" 

and through groves, sweet as that of Arcadia or of "Daph- 
ne by Orontes," was I urged by the resistless power of 
steam, till, on one lovely morning, there lay spread out 
before me, in the quiet beauty of summer sunlight, the 
City of the Prairie. Over all the landscape was difi'used 
a soft and mellow radiancy, a gentle, wavy light, like the 
dim and dreamy hues of distant mountain scenery. With 
eye unvailed and undimmed, I stood looking on the fairy 
paradise, shadowy visions of whose surpassing beauty had 
often flitted before the magic mirror of the soul, amidst 
the dreams of childhood's reverie. 

Midway between the City of the Prairie and the City 
of the Plain, on which stands Indiana's capitol, and 
midway between the gentle and fair Ohio and the broad 
and beautiful Michigan, by the side of a streamlet, whose 
waters run rippling by to mingle with the Wabash, 
smooth and softly flowing, nestles, in a cozy retreat, my 
summer bower. On the north may be caught faint 
glimpses of my vine-covered cottage, peering out among 
the trees, and beyond rise the steeples of the village. On 
the south there stretches away, in the dim distance, a 
shadowy valley dreaming of perpetual summer. On the 
east appear fields waving with the green grass and the 
golden harvest, and pastures cropped by lowing herds and 
bleating flocks. On the west rises a grand old forest of 
venerable and magnificent trees, whose memory reaches 
back to the silent and oblivious ages of the past. 

One of the old trees, an original denizen of the soil, 



THE BOWER. T 

throws its dense and impenetrable shade over my rural 
Beat. Around me, clustering close, are thickets of ever- 
greens. Here are growing, fresh and fair, as on their 
native plains, the pine, the fir, the spruce, and the tam- 
arack, transplanted from my own native home on the At- 
lantic shore. Springing up amid the evergreens, and 
scattered all along the valley by the brook, are lilies of 
the purest white. The bright green leaves of the maple 
and the beech, which surround and overhang the bower, 
reflect from their polished surface the cheerful sunlight. 
Just in the vale, at the foot of the bowery dell, is a lake- 
let of pure, transparent water, whose quiet bosom reflects 
the shadows of the trees, forming a perfect daguerreotype 
of the sylvan scene. 

There are voices here, gentle reader; the voices of Na- 
ture in her gladness and love. Lots of merry crickets 
are chirping in the tall grass. The incessant hum of the 
bee is heard in the air and on the trees overhead. On a 
little bush by my side sits the sparrow singing to its mate 
on her nest in the neighboring thicket. From the fence- 
corner comes the plaintive monotone of the robin. From 
the crevice in the old stump flits the wren twittering em- 
ulous. On the topmost branch of the maple sits the 
mocking-bird, most tuneful of nature's warblers, leaving, 
in her ecstasies of melody, nothing unimitated. From 
the adjacent grove comes the cooing of the turtle-dove, 
mournful and sad. Even the pines, in their waving tas- 
sels, furnish a harp for the winds, giving out music soft, 
soothing, and inimitable. And is it fancy, or do I some- 
times hear, mingled with the melody of nature, soothing 
my soul with heavenly harmony, and cheering me onward 
and upward, the spirit-voice of my angel child, idol of 
my heart, and twin genius of my spirit, my own sweet 
Emma Rosabelle, whose grave, covered with violets and 
myrtle, is made beneath the same tree whose branches 



8 THE BOWER. 

incline over me? Many a sweet summer hour did she sit 
here by my side, or blithely bound over the lawn, clap- 
ping her little hands for joy that summer was come. Then 
would she skip from flower to flower along the dell, and 
having woven, with tiny hands, a wreath, steal with light 
steps around my study-chair and crown me with a chap- 
let, to recall me from my dreamy reverie. Her fair hand 
failed never to smooth from my brow the wrinkles of sor- 
row or of care. Her voice to my soul was music — music 
sweeter than Eolian melody or the Orphean Lyre. Her 
soul was a mine of gems and of gold. Her heart was a 
fountain of aff"ection, welling up spontaneous and pure 
from exhaustless depths. 

One evening, in the merry month of May, she was 
rambling with me about this shady glen, and about the 
garden walks of home, till the fading twilight sent us to 
repose. To the night succeeded a morning of intense 
anxiety. There was hurrying to and fro about the house, 
and flitting forms of physicians and friends passed and 
repassed by me, as I was watching intent over my sick 
and dying child. Another night — a night of bitter 
agony, a night of intense anguish, a night of dying hope, 
a night of despair — passed slow and sad away. Another 
morning came — the morning of the holy Sabbath came 
bright and beautiful; but I can only remember the voice 
of wailing and of woe in my once happy home, the melan- 
choly tones of the bell of death pealing on the air, the 
long funeral procession, the open grave, and by the side 
of it a cofiin with its lid upraised, and in that coffin my 
own little Emma Rosabelle, with the sunlight of heaven 
beaming bright on her cold, pale, yet beautiful face. We 
buried hei* — buried her here in this rural spot. "When 
I am dead," said she, a few days before she fell sick, 
"they will not bury me in the cold graveyard, but they 
will bury me in the bower among the flowerS; and my 



THE BOWER. 9 

fntlier and ray mother will come and sit by me." So we 
buried her here, in this lovely bower, and for her sake we 
call it Rosabower. 

Here she still sleeps. Unbroken are her slumbers, 
undisturbed her repose. She wakes not, though I call 
her long and loud. She sleeps on, though her poor 
mother, with a disconsolate heart, often kneels in prayer 
over her grave; though her only sister, at morning and 
at evening, strews flowers over the spot; and though her 
little brother, often as ho passes by, sighs for the lost 
companion of his childhood. She slumbers on, though 
spring after spring has returned with its music and glad- 
ness, though summer after summer, with its flowers and 
its fruits, has come and gone, though autumn after autumn 
has strewed her grave with fallen leaves, and though 
winter after winter has howled, drear and bleak, with its 
wild winds, over the landscape. 

To me there seems something bright and beautiful 

gone from earth. There is a blank in life. A cloud is 

on my brow, a shadow on my heart. Yet would I not 

call back my child to sufi"er and to die again. No, sleep 

on, my lovely one. Dark as may be to me my future 

pathway, there is one bright spot in the past. There is 

on my soul one beauteous picture that can never fade — a 

picture of loveliness, of gentleness, of purity. When my 

eye of flesh grows dim with age, my eye of mind shall 

still look, my child, on thy beautiful face. When my 

ear grows dull to passing sounds, the melody of thy voice 

shall linger still 

" Like an echo that hath lost itself 
Among the distant hills." 

Come, then, gentle reader, come to my bower and let 
us commune together. I would, if I may, awaken in 
your mind some pleasing reminiscence of the past, and 
inspire some hope of the future. If I contribute, in 



10 THE BOWER. 

ever so slight a degree, to afford you one pleasing emo- 
tion, I shall accomplish no small object. Happy is he 
who succeeds in smoothing one wrinkle from the brow 
of care, and in lighting up one smile of hope on the face 
of sorrow. 

I may not aspire to furnish you any new ideas. My 
retreat is away from the busy city and the crowded thor- 
oughfare. No one comes to see me unless he comes on 
purpose. I have only a few books, and them I read up 
long ago. In our free and easy interview let us not be 
cooped up by bars of iron logic, or entangled in split-hair 
nets of metaphysics. Forced all day to be solving equa- 
tions, and developing functions, and deducing differen- 
tials, and summing up integrals, and measuring triangles, 
and moving in conic sections, I must, at evening, when I 
sit down to commune with you, have a respite from what 
men call science and reason, and must cultivate the senti- 
ments and the affections, the noblest part of our nature. 

Let us, therefore, with unembarrassed ease and famil- 
iar freedom, review the past, analyze the present, divine 
the future, develop the sentiments, and cultivate the affec- 
tions of our nature, and occasionally make excursions 
into the domains of nature and of fancy, that we may 
pick up by the way something to amuse, or instruct, or 
interest us. 



BARREN HILL. 11 



BARREN HILL. 

I CONFESS that I had not the good fortune to be born 
in the west. I was going to say that few have; but that 
would be a sad mistake; for any one may perceive, from 
the legions of merry children about him, that the west 
is becoming quite a common birthright. I may, how- 
ever, truly say, that few of my age have the pleasure of 
claiming the great and glorious west as their childhood's 
home. 

I have to own for the place of my birth a spot known 
in the neighborhood as Barren Hill. Rather an unpre- 
possessing name, surely. I here enter my protest against 
the practice of bestowing such villainous names on places 
and persons. There are places, and beautiful places too, 
where I would not live, solely on account of the hori'id 
names attached to them. I would not, under any consid- 
eration, be obliged to speak or write such names. Often 
it happens that a beautiful place has an outlandish name 
billeted on it forever by some hypochondriac in a fit of 
spleen. While names are so plenty, and so cheap, and 
so easily manufactured, and so readily imported without 
custom-house duties, it is a pity there is not more taste 
displayed in choosing them. Barren Hill, however, is 
not so bad after all, at least not to me. It is true that 
corn obstinately refused to grow upon it, and that grass 
seemed uneasy and desirous of changing its latitude or 
longitude, it mattered not which. But it produced rocks 
in abundance. They were venerable-looking, primitive 
rocks. They seemed natives of the place, not strangers 
and intruders, like those we find occasionally in the west. 



12 BARREN HILL. 

They were useful in many ways. A stranger, once pass- 
ing by the hill, and seeing a flock of sheep upon it, crop- 
ping what little grass grew there, said that the shepherd 
should have a blacksmith-shop near by, so as to have the 
noses of the sheep occasionally new laid, as they might 
soon get worn blunt. But this stranger was evidently 
" green." The sheep had only to sharpen their noses on 
some granite whetstone, to keep them sufficiently pointed 
for cropping the tufts of grass in the crevices of the 
ledge. 

These old gray rocks abounded in well-fashioned min- 
erals. The tourmalin, and the beryl, and the amethyst, 
and the garnet, and the andalusite dwelt here in their 
native homes. It was curious to find these beautiful 
specimens of nature's handicraft, more finished in shape 
than any human artificer could form, in solid masses of 
granite. How came these delicate, beautiful, and fragile 
gems in these rough old rocks ? One man, whom I onca 
met in a geological expedition, thought the Indians must 
have happened along, and thrust the minerals in, while 
the rocks were soft. But when were the rocks soft, 
and how came they soft? 

Not all the surface of Barren Hill was covered with 
rocks. There were little patches of thin soil, on which 
grew clusters of pines. The pine, the most beautiful 
of forest trees, loves the neat, clean, sandy surface of 
such soils as Barren Hill. Here the pine feels at home. 
The pine is a noble tree. It grew on Barren Hill in 
thick clusters, towering up, with its straight stem and 
conical top, high toward heaven. And what music it 
made ! It answered the gentle zephyr in strains sweet 
as the Eolian harp. But when the storm wind blew, 
the pine answered in tones deep as the pealing organ. 
One cluster, on the very crest of the hill, formed a con- 
spicuous object, last seen by the adventurous seaman, as 



BARREN HILL. 13 

he rounded tlie cape that bears the name of England's 
maiden queen, and sped away on the billowy deep. No 
daring ax has yet touched those noble trees. There 
they stand yet, projecting their well-proportioned forms 
against the sky, from whatever point you approach the 
hill. Long may they stand ! Palsied be the hand that 
would cut them down ! He that would destroy such 
noble trees, adding such beauty to the landscape, and 
connecting the present with the past, would hardly 
scruple to break his grandfather's neck. 

On the hill-side was a lone old apple-tree. How it 
came there I know not. Its age, genealogy, and history 
were involved in oblivious obscurity, deep as that which 
has gathered over the temples and pyramids of Egypt. 
It held the right of possession to the place it occupied, 
by a tenure so ancient, that the " memory of man ran 
not to the contrary." It was the common benefactor 
of the neighborhood. Its shade and its fruit were free 
for all. The traveler oft stopped to rest him beneath its 
branches, the school-boy spent his noontide recess about 
it, and the youth went there at twilight to dream of 
love. I know not but the old tree is there yet. If so, 
it must be getting far advanced in life. I have a filial 
affection for it; and if it were not, as is usually the case 
with aged trees, as well as aged people, so strongly at- 
tached to its native place, I would invite it to come and 
spend its last days here, by the side of my old beech. 

Bubbling up from the gravelly soil on the hill-side 
was a pure spring of clear, cold water. It was none 
of your intermittent springs, such as flow by fits and 
starts — very profuse in their supply of water in a wet 
time, when you do not need it, and totally drying up when 
you do need it, thus constantly reminding you of the 
friendship of the selfish — but a perennial fountain, flow- 
ing the more profusely as the season advanced, and water 

2 



14 BARRENHILL. 

became scarce. In summer its waters grew cold, and in 
winter they, grew warm, thus exhibiting marked inde- 
pendence of character, scorning to be influenced by the 
ever-varying temperature of the air and the earth. How 
refreshing on a hot summer day — a day so hot as to cause 
the pitch actually to fry in the pine trees — to kneel at 
the spring, and drink the clear, cold, sparkling waters, as 
they gushed up from the pure bosom of earth, into a 
basin of clean, white sand ! It really makes me want to 
drink now to think of it. 

On the north side of the hill was the blueberry patch. 
Alas ! my western friends know not what a blueberry is. 
Like the pine, it grows only in a thin, poor, sandy soil. 
It is the finest of all wild fruits. But the greatest thing 
about the blueberries is the pleasure of picking them. 
In blueberry time the hill was no longer barren, at least 
of visitors. Matrons and -maids, and boys and girls, and 
little children of all sorts and sizes, were there with their 
buckets and baskets. Merry and joyous were the blue- 
berry days. I remember them well. Could I take 
another blueberry excursion, I should feel young again. 
At the southern base of the hill was the cranberry 
meadow. This modest little fruit loves to hide its blush- 
ing beauties beneath the vines and grass. It comes, too, 
at a time when all the other fruits fail — peeping up 
through the ice of winter, and disappearing only when 
the last snows of spring melt away. It grew in copious 
abundance about Barren Hill. Beyond the cranberry 
meadow was the bog, as the natives called it, for want 
of taste, I suppose, to select a better name. The bog, 
however, despite its unattractive name, was a beautiful 
feature in the landscape. It was covered with a dense 
growth of the finest evergreens in the world. They were 
principally fir. Few of my western readers have seen 
the fir-tree in its native glory. You have seen small 



BARREN HILL. 15 

specimens in the gardens and yards of the city. But he 
who would judge of the appearance of a forest of firs in 
their native swamps by the single specimens he sees in 
our gardens, would be about as wise as the man who car- 
ried about a single brick, exhibiting it as a specimen of 
his house. The straight trunk, regular branches, and 
deep green of the fir render it decidedly the handsomest 
tree that ever grew this side of Eden. The bog was ren- 
dered more beautiful in summer by the intermixture of 
juniper with the fir. This tree has a variety of names, 
such as juniper, hackmatack, tamarack, and larch. It 
belongs to the pine family, but is not an evergreen. It 
forms, however, a beautiful forest. West of the hill, 
just over the river, was the city. A fine city it is, too 
A promontory makes out into the sea, terminating in a 
high headland. The promontory is some three or four 
miles long, and about one mile broad, and forms what is 
called a horseback ridge, inclining gently on each side to 
the sea. On this ridge the city is built. Every part of 
it is distinctly visible from Barren Hill. Its numerous 
spires, its noble Exchange, its lofty Observatory, and its 
forest of masts from the shipping in the harbor, afi"ord a 
most enchanting spectacle to the dwellers on Barren Hill. 
Its bells, too, whether ringing merrily for nine at night, 
or chiming sweetly the call to church, or pealing sadly 
the knell of death, redouble their music by the echoes 
of the hill. 

At the eastern base of the hill was the ocean — the old 
Atlantic, the deep, dark, dashing ocean. How wild its 
waves beat on the beach ! How they dashed against the 
cliff's ! How they bellowed in the dark caverns ! When 
the weather was fair, the whole expanse seemed some- 
times whitened with sails, and the waves seemed to sport 
and play on the beach. But when the storm came, the 
waters foamed, and dashed, and roared with incessant 



16 BARREN HILL. 

thunder. There is something peculiar in the sound of 
waters. Did you ever listen to it ? The little brook that 
babbles by your father's door makes music such as is not 
soon forgot. The cascade, as some rapid stream tumbles 
over the projecting rock, makes a still deeper impres- 
sion. Niagara produces a sound which you can never 
forget. But the ocean has a voice of its own. It speaks 
in deep, solemn tones. They move the very soul, and 
stir up the deep, hidden feelings of nature. 

On the whole, Barren Hill is not so mean a place. I 
have seen a great many places, in whose favor I could 
not say half so much. And I have not told all yet. I 
have said nothing of the herrings in the weirs, nor the 
clams on the fiats, nor the shad in the river, nor the 
mackerel and codfish a little distance out on the ocean. 
Verily, I should like to pay the old hill a visit. I think 
I should know it, though I doubt whether it would know 
mC; so changed am I since last my foot trod its rocky 
soil. 



EPHRAIM BROWN. 17 



EPHRAIM BROWN; 

OR, THE UNIVERSAL GENIUS. 

When I entered the academy, in one of tte beautiful 
villages of New England, to pursue the usual course of 
study, preparatory to college, the first acquaintance I 
formed was with Ephraim Brown. Ephraim was the son 
of a very respectable physician in a neighboring town, 
and was sent to the academy to acquire the education 
necessary for the study of medicine. He was a good- 
looking young man, and distinguished for his social vir- 
tues and gentlemanly habits. He was a fine scholar, of 
superior literary taste, and quite accomplished for a mei'e 
academician, in the classics, mathematics, and general 
literature. His moral character was irreproachable, and 
his sentiments religiously inclined. For several months 
he was my room-mate, and I learned to esteem him and 
to love him to such a degree, that a quarter of a century 
has not sufficed to annihilate, if at all to diminish, my 
high regard and warm afi'ection for him. 

Ephraim, however, in one respect, was a very singular 
«ase. He entertained an idea that he was a universal 
genius. At first he thought he would study medicine, 
and, if he did, he would bring about a thorough revolu- 
tion in the study and practice of that art. He would 
reduce the science of anatomy to such perfection, as to 
leave nothing to be attempted. In physiology, he would 
make discoveries, which would keep all the world agog 
for a thousand years. In the healing of disease, he 
2* 



18 EPHRAIM BROWN. 

would become so skillful, that the people within range 
of his practice would have to move out of the country, in 
order, when tired of life, to die. 

At the close of the academic term, we had an exhibi- 
tion. Ephraim was head and body of the whole affair, 
having the salutatory, and valedictory, and chief part of 
a scenic performance. His success in the comico-tragic 
was encouraging, and he thought he would become an 
actor. He would restore the drama to its legitimate pur- 
pose. It was true, his religious sentiments would not 
admit of his becoming an actor in the theater, as now 
managed ; but he would effect a radical change. In his 
hands the theater should really be a school of morals. 
He would himself write a series of plays, that would 
throw Shakspeare utterly into the background. In act- 
ing, he would excel all that ever had been done, or ever 
should be again. Such actors as Glarrick, and Forrest, 
and Macready, would either be driven from the stage, or 
take subordinate parts under his patronage. Full of high 
expectations of success as an actor, Ephraim went home, 
and I heard no more of him for some monihs. On en- 
tering college, however, I found Ephraim in the neigh- 
boring village, studying law. He had entered his name 
in the office of a distinguished jurist, and had just fin- 
ished Blackstone. He thought the practice of the law 
might be too small business for him. He aspired higher 
than that. He did not think he should ever open an 
office; but he intended to become an expounder of the 
law. He would yet be Chief Justice of the Supreme 
Court of the United States, if he did not think there 
might be too much drudgery in the business. He thought, 
on the whole, he would become a writer on constitutional 
law. He would write a treatise on government which 
should be translated into every civilized tongue on the 
globe, and sLould become the source from which the 



EPHRAIM BROWN. 19 

statesmen of the universe should draw their constitutional 
principles for a thousand years. 

Having accomplished my college course, and taken 
charge of an academy, I unexpectedly received, one even- 
ing, a call from my old friend Ephraim. He had now 
concluded to become an astronomer. He had just read 
Mrs. B.'s Conversations on Natural Philosophy, a com- 
mon school book of those times, and had mastered the 
chapter on astronomy, and was going out to lecture on 
the subject; and, as soon as he could, by the avails of 
his lectures, raise the funds, he would erect, on the top 
of a very high hill in his native town, an observatory, 
from which he would make discoveries of far more im- 
portance than Herschel had ever dreamed of. In this 
interview he could talk of nothing but planets, and com- 
ets, and fixed stars, and nebulosities. 

Ten years or more passed away, during which I had heard 
nothing of Ephraim, when, on a cold, winter evening, as 
I was sitting, with my children, about a blazing fire, in 
our little cottage, on the Atlantic hill, a knock was heard 
at the door. Wondering who could be there on such a 
bitter and blustering night, I opened the door, and there 
stood my old friend, so changed in appearance, I had dif- 
ficulty in recognizing him. Welcoming him to my fire- 
side, right glad as I was to see him, I asked him where 
he had been, and what he had been doing, these many 
years. He cheerfully gave me a history of his life and 
adventures, with his various enterprises and successes. 

Not succeeding as well as he had hoped, in his astro- 
nomical excursion, he concluded he would try preaching. 
Not being a member of any Church, though evidently a 
man of sincere piety, he determined to preach, as the 
Kentuckian fought — "on his own hook." He went 
among the frontier settlements, near the Umbagog Lakes, 
and began his labors with high hopes of success. Ho 



20 EPHRAIMBROWN. 

had no doubts but converts to the truth would be multi- 
plied on his hands, like the rocks along the river valleys; 
and he would build up a new and prosperous Church, 
whose distinctive name he had not fully determined. 
His Church should be a nucleus, about which should 
gather fraternal societies, through whom the theology 
and moral philosophy of the world should be reformed. 
Ephraim's notions of theology were generally orthodox, 
but they were somewhat transcendental. He loaded so 
big a gun that he wasted all his powder on a few charges, 
and fired so high over the heads of the people, that he 
did no execution. After a few rounds there was nobody 
left to fire at. All had quietly left his congregation, and 
he wisely concluded preaching was not his forte. 

He then strayed over the mountains, at the head waters 
of the Kennebec, and spent a year or two, working among 
the farmers, and making himself agreeable and welcome, 
by his intelligence, affability, and good-nature. At last, 
he concluded he would turn school-teacher. Being dis- 
posed to do good, as well as produce a sensation among 
the natives, he looked around for some place where his 
services might be needed. There was a country, known 
down east, in those times, as the Aroostook, about five 
hundred miles from anyplace, and thither Ephraim turned 
his steps. He found, in the Aroostook, some ten or fif- 
teen families, happily blest, as families in out-of-the-way 
places usually are, with lots of children. Ephraim 
opened a school, and remained full three years in the 
same place, teaching the little children of the wilder- 
ness, "a, b, c," "baker," and "no man may put off" the 
law of God," and other matters of science, discussed in 
Webster's Spelling-Book, with occasional lectures on the 
classics, anatomy, law, astronomy, and theology, much to 
the amazement of all down east, who had never heard of 
so much learning. The people had boarded him around 



EPHRAIM BROWN. 21 

among them, and contributed, in addition, sufficient to 
keep him in decent clothing, and to enable him to lay by 
enough to meet the expenses of a foot-journey to the Ken- 
nebec, to see his old friends. Ephraim was not deter- 
mined, when he left my house the next morning, what he 
should do next ; but he thought he should return to the 
Ai'oostook, and spend his days teaching the children in 
the little log school-house the people had erected for him. 

I have never seen nor heard of Ephraim since, though 
some years have passed ; but I presume he is yet as far 
as ever from realizing his high-wrought expectations. 

I have never been acquainted with any genius just 
like Ephraim, but I have known many fail in success, 
from causes similar to those which affected him. His 
notion that he was a universal genius, led him continually 
on a phantom chase after that which ever eluded hia 
grasp. Had he deliberately chosen any definite business 
of life, and soberly adhered to it, be it medicine, or law, 
or teaching, or, indeed, any other profession or pursuit, 
he might have become eminent. He had talents, taste, 
and good character — capital sufficient to set up any one 
in the world; but no man can expect to succeed in any 
business requiring time and talent, unless his attention 
be devoted to that only, with other congenial and auxil- 
iary pursuits. The idea of universality of genius is ut- 
terly Utopian. We do not mean that genius is naturally 
limited to any one channel of enterprise, but that it can 
run only in one channel at the same time. Any one, of 
ordinary capacity, by diligent adherence to any one busi- 
ness or enterprise, may attain a respectable rank ; but if 
he divides his attention and efforts between several enter- 
prises, he will most surely fail in all. 

Ephraim seemed greatly to lack independence of will 
and strength of personality. The least difficulty lying 
along his path was sufficient to deter him from the prose- 



22 EPHRAIM BROWN. 

cution of a favorite enterprise. If one would succeed 
in the enterprises of life, lie must ever love to meet diffi- 
culties for the pleasure of overcoming them. In all mat- 
ters of responsibility, he must be unyielding and uncom- 
promising. The more opposition and impediment he 
finds, the more energy, determination, and personal will 
he should exercise. I have seen many young men, of 
fine talents and amiable disposition, become utterly use- 
less, and sometimes ruined, for the mere want of the "I 
take the responsibility" principle. Those of a temper 
yielding in matters of difficulty in enterprises, are usually 
yielding in moral principle, and hence are they easily 
seduced by the vicious. Ephraim, however, was as 
unyielding in morals as he was easily discouraged in 
enterprises. You could neither coax, nor drive, nor 
frighten him to do wrong. His conscience was impreg- 
nable. In this he difi'ered from most of those who are 
deficient in personal energy. 

On the whole, Ephraim was a right-down good, clever 
fellow. His faults were such as are common to all easy, 
clever fellows. If one be predisposed to be vicious and 
really bad, we can usually, if he have stamina enough 
about him to stay, when put into the right shape, make 
something of him ; but, when one has not resistance 
enough to maintain his position, nor cohesion of charac- 
ter sufficient to retain any determinate form, but taking, 
like water, whatever form surrounding bodies and circum- 
stances may give, there is little hope of accomplishing 
much by education and discipline. You may labor long 
and hard, and you can by no effort make water retain 
the permanent shape of a block of marble or of wood 



THE EMIGRANT. 23 



THE EMIGRANT. 

The emigrant from New England, as he leaves his 
native home lor a residence in the west, experiences some 
strange and hardly definable feelings. His home has be- 
come endeared to him by the associations of childhood, 
of youth, and of manhood. There is the sloping hill- 
side on which he gathered the violets of spring and the 
lilies of summer. There is the little brook, among 
whose shady bowers he spent many a summer hour. 
There is the woodland plain, over which he rambled in 
lutumn, when the leaves were falling around him, and 
3very wild flower had disappeared before the chilling- 
Frost. There is the old orchard, whose ripe fruits he had 
so often gathered up — the meadow all waving with grass — 
the pasture with its glades and dells all grown over with 
brakes and ferns. There is the old elm, planted perhaps 
by the hand of his grandfather, with its long branches 
jverhanging the house; and there is the pine, planted 
by his own hand, with its evergreen tassels sighing to 
the wind. In the distance are the blue hills, which 
bave formed the background of the landscape on which 
be has looked from infancy; and nearer are the silver 
,akes, from whose mirrowy surface he has so often seen 
reflected the sunlight of morning. 

The old cottage in which he was born and nurtured, 
ind which has also been thus far the nursery of his own 
ittle children, has charms for him, which the princely 
palace might not equal. Its image, with the scenery* 
iround it, is indelibly stamped on his soul. Let him 



24 THE EMIGRANT. 

become a wanderer in distant lands — let new and start- 
ling scenes every-where meet him — let him make a new 
home wherever he may, the impress of his childhood's 
home will still lie too deep in his memory ever to be 
effaced. Wherever his waking thoughts may be, his 
dreams will still linger about this spot. 

The emigrant, before he leaves this sacred spot, calls 
his children once more around him. Once more they 
kneel before the old family altar, and offer up their devo- 
tions to a protecting Providence. Then they walk to- 
gether once more about the orchard and garden, instinct- 
ively bidding good-by to each floweret and shrub. Re- 
turning, they cast a "longing, lingering look" at their 
cottage halls, and close the doors to open them no more 
forever. 

Slowly and sadly the emigrant pi'oceeds on his weary 
way. From the topmost ridge of some long hill, he 
catches the last glance at his cottage home. The car- 
riage stops. The family, little children and all, fix their 
eyes, full of tears, on that loved spot. There it is, in 
quiet, silent beauty, embowered in shrubbery, and ren- 
dered still more enchanting to the sight by the soft blue 
tinge which distance throws around it. A moment more — 
one other look, and the carriage moves on, and the cot- 
tage disappears forever. 

Not yet, however, has every familiar scene gone from 
the emigrant's view. There is yet about him the scenery 
of his native state. These farms, these neat villages, 
these lakes, these crystal streams he has seen before. 
One by one, however, every familiar scene fades away, 
till the last hill of his native land sinks below the hori- 
zon. The whizzing steam car bears him on, and he 
stands on the summit of the Alleghanies. Here he stops 
again, to take one more look at the world he is leaving. 
He stands on the boundary line between the east and the 



THE EMIGRANT. 25 

west. On the one side is the world which he has long 
known and admired — on the other is, to him, an "undis- 
covered country." He looks back, and there rushes on 
his soul the thrilling memory of the past — the memory 
of incidents, and scenes, and friends which he had long 
since lost in oblivion. Philosophers tell us that there is 
reason to believe our thoughts and feelings imperishable; 
that relics of sensation may exist for an indefinite time 
in a latent state, and may all be brought up whenever 
any stimulus, sufficiently exciting, acts on the mind; and 
that, therefore, there are occasions when there is brought 
before the mind the collective experience of its whole 
past existence. Such an occasion occurs to the emigrant, 
as he stands on the Alleghanies and looks back, over hill 
and dale, toward his native home. Scenes long since 
faded away — incidents long ago forgotten — friends long 
since followed to the grave — all come up before him as 
vivid and as bright as though the events had just occur- 
red. His eyes swimming with the recollections of the 
past, he can look no longer. He closes them; but yet 
he sees painted on the living canvas of his soul the land 
of his birth, with its mountains and valleys, its lakes and 
streams, the cottage where he lived, with all its rural at- 
tractions, and the friends he had long known and loved. 

Gathering up his energies, the emigrant opens his eyes 
and looks before him. At his feet he sees a range of 
hills, lower than that on which he stands, succeeded by 
another, lower still, and still another, continually dimin- 
ishing as they recede, till far away, near the distant hori- 
zon, he sees spread out, in quiet beauty, tinged with the 
sunlight of evening, the illimitable plains of the west. 

The emigrant's heart is glad. He winds his way down 
the mountain side, and presses on his journey. On the 
banks of the Scioto he again looks back. The last hill 
has faded away in the east. He looks forward and there 

3 



26 THE EMIGRANT. 

sees before him the fertile plains of western Ohio, of 
Indiana, and of Illinois. To him it appears one vast 
wilderness, without habitation or cultivated field — a dead 
level, varied by no elevation or depression, and enlivened 
by no rippling brook. "Wending his way, however, west- 
ward, he perceives what he supposed a level plain to be 
an undulating surface, intersected by many a meandering 
stream, and covered with corn, wheat, grass, and forest 
trees in such abundance and magnitude as to defy all his 
former calculations of the productive powers of nature. 
Pursuing his way he reaches the Wabash, flowing through 
the most fertile valley ever wet with the dews of heaven, 
or warmed by the rays of the sun. Here there appears 
before him a variegated landscape of woodland and prai- 
ries, exhibiting a scene of beauty, to which, even in fair 
New England, his eye had never been accustomed. Still 
moving toward the setting sun, the emigrant soon finds 
himself on the interminable, tenantless, homeless, tree- 
less prairie. Day after day he moves on, nor meets one 
human face, unless some traveler like himself may cross 
his path, and then all is loneliness again. The sense of 
loneliness is one that must oppress him, wherever he may 
make his journey through the interior of the great west. 
The dense and continuous forests, the prairies, and even 
the immense fields of corn, all tend to make him feel 
lost in the vastness of the scenes with which he is sur- 
rounded. He stands on the bluff and looks down on ten 
thousand acres of corn, all in one continuous field. He 
looks on the cultivated prairie, waving for miles with the 
golden wheat, all ready for the sickle. He goes into the 
forest, and the prodigious trees overwhelm him by their 
size, and make him dizzy by their hight. The calmness 
of the atmosphere, the stillness that every-where prevails, 
oppress him with emotions of sadness. He feels like the 
shepherd king of Palestine when he looked on the heav- 



I 



THE EMIGRANT. 27 

ens in their grandeur, and then thought on the frailty of 
man. 

In some retired spot, surrounded by primeval beauty, 
the emigrant makes him another home. The forest is 
cleared away, and the fields grow green with corn. Soon 
the little white cottage, resembling, as much as possible, 
his former home, erects its modest front. Up its walls 
climb the woodbine, the jessamine, the eglantine, and 
the honeysuckle; and around it cluster the sweet-brier, 
the almond, the lilac, and the rose, exhibiting the same 
beauty, and emitting the same fragrance as those around 
his home on the Atlantic hill. His cottage halls now 
again echo with the merry laugh of childhood. Tiny 
hands gather up the dandelions of spring, and little feet 
bound over the decorated landscape. The little ones — 
rambling from nook to nook, and dell to dell, gathering 
wild flowers of every hue, walking hand in hand along 
the garden avenues, admiring the shrubbery and flowers, 
and listening to the mocking-bird, the sweetest of all 
songsters, and unknown in the north — earnestly inquire 
of their mother if she supposes their old place can 
be so pleasant. Then is the emigrant's heart glad. The 
cloud of sadness is dispelled from his soul. He is lonely 
no more. He meets not, it is true, the familiar faces of 
his old friends; but he is content with the society of his 
own household. He misses the excitement and the stir- 
ring scenes with which he was once surrounded; but he 
heeds it not — he learns to find sufficient interest and 
amusement at his own fireside. He dreams of his old 
home; but his new home has, in his waking hours, suffi- 
cient charms to remove the sadness of his dreams. He 
looks in vain for the church of his native village, with 
its spire pointing to the blue sky; but he still may wor- 
ship with renewed zeal at his own family altar. The 
pealing organ he hears no more; but sweet voices around 



28 THE EMIGRANT. 

his domestic hearth chant the morning and evening 
hymn of thanksgiving and praise. Wherever the loved 
ones are, there is home — wherever home is, there may be 
peace, and content, and happiness. 



MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 29 



MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 

On a visit to the east, being detained a day or two at 
Boston, and being tired of the heat, and dust, and noise 
of the city, I made an excursion to Mount Auburn, the 
city of the dead. The distance from Boston is about 
five miles, through a succession of villages of the New 
England style, with their neat, shaded streets, fine gar- 
dens, white cottages, and steepled churches. The most 
important village on the way is Cambridge, the seat of 
the venerable Harvard University, rich in the associa- 
tions of the past. About a mile west of Cambridge, I 
came to a large gateway, opening into a beautifully-wild 
and romantic inclosure, containing about one hundred 
acres. Over the gate is written, in conspicuous charac- 
ters, these words : '' Then shall the dust return to the 
earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who 
gave it." Entering by the gate, I passed down an av- 
enue betw/een rows of pines and firs, to a small lake bor- 
dered by willows. Leaving the lake, I passed on a few 
rods, and saw before me a natural mound, surmounted 
by a neat monument of very beautiful Italian marble. 
Being the first monument we meet on entering the cem- 
etery, it naturally arrests attention and excites curiosity. 
We readily suppose it may in many words record the his- 
tory, describe the character, and extol the virtues of him 
who sleeps beneath. On approaching, however, this beau 
tiful monument, I saw inscribed on it but a single word — 
the name of the philosopher and philanthropist, who 
came from a far country to visit our own fair land — who 
died here suddenly, far from his home and his friends, 

3* 



30 MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 

and for whom strangers had made a grave in this beau- 
tiful spot. It was Spurzheim. How expressive appears 
that simple inscription, that single word, Spurzheim! 
His name alone is sufl&cient to recall to the mind the 
history and the virtues of that great and good man, who 
held so distinguished a rank in philosophy. At the 
invitation of his friends and admirers in America, he 
had left his native land across the ocean, bringing with 
him a reputation as a lecturer on science and philosophy, 
such as few men had ever attained. He had been in 
this country but a few days when he fell ill of a fever, 
and died amidst the regrets of all who had ever heard 
his name. The following lines, written for the occasion 
by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont, were sung at his grave : 

" Stranger, there is bending o'er thee 
Many an eye with sorrow wet ; 
All our stricken hearts deplore thee ; 
Who that knew thee can forget? 

Who forget what thou hast spoken? 

Who thine eye, thy noble frame? 
But that golden bowl is broken, 

In the greatness of thy fame. 

Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither 

On the place where thou shalt rest; 
'Tis in love we bear thee thither, 

To thy mourning mother's breast. 

For the lessons thou hast taught us, 

For the charm thy goodness gave. 
For the stores of vi'isdom brought us. 

Can we give thee but a grave?" 

Leaving this spot, I passed on over the grounds. 
Avenues and paths intersecting each other at various 
angles run in every direction over this city of the dead. 
Their names are derived from the vast variety of trees 
and shrubs with which nature has adorned this beautiful 
spot. There is Larch Avenue, Beech Avenue, Oak Av- 
enue, Hazel Path, Catalpa Path, Jasmine Path, Haw- 
thorn Path, Vine Path, Iris Path, Linden Path, and so 



MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 31 

on through all the vegetable vocabulary. Of all places 
I ever visited, this is the most remarkable for its diversi- 
fied surface and for its variety of vegetation. There are 
hills, valleys, horseback ridges, lakes, glens, dells, and 
brooks, of every possible shape and variety. On the small 
space of one hundred acres may be found growing sponta- 
neously nearly every variety of tree, shrub, and wild flower 
common in the north, with most of the exotics cultivated 
in the gardens of the vicinity. The mingling of wild 
and cultivated shrubbery, of indigenous and exotic flow- 
ers, in so rural and romantic a spot, produces a fine 
effect. I ascended a hill which commanded a view of 
the grounds and much of the surrounding country. 
Here you may see, through the openings of the trees, 
Cambridge, Brighton, Brookline, Charleston, Roxbury, 
Dorchester, and I know not how many more of the beau- 
tiful villages in the vicinity of Boston, and beyond them 
the towers and steeples of the great city itself, with the 
blue waters of the ocean stretching away in the distance. 
Looking west, you may see the green fields, and orchards, 
and gardens, and white farm cottages, which form so dis- 
tinguishing a feature in a New England landscape. The 
scene was enlivened by the cheerful sounds of melody 
which nature was pouring forth from the forest, the 
earth, and the aii*. The robin was practicing his plaint- 
ive song from the top of a beech ; the wren was twit- 
tering by her nest in a hollow stump; the cuckoo was 
uttering her monotone at a distance; the sparrow was 
adding her modest notes to the general symphony; the 
bobolink was fluttering round full of music; and the 
aorthern mocking-bird was imitating them all from a 
willow by the brook. To this was added the chirp of 
the cricket in the grass, the ceaseless hum of the bee in 
the air, and the sighing of the summer wind through 
the pines. It was a lovely summer day, as I stood on 



32 MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 

this liill, and cast my eye over this scene of beauty, and 
listened to these sounds of nature mingled with the faint 
hum of the distant city. The interest of the scene was 
hightened by the associations of the neighborhood. I 
was in the early home of the Pilgrims. I could almost 
step on the rock of Plymouth where they landed. Har- 
vard University, founded by them, was in plain sight. 
So also was Bunker Hill, of glorious memory. Lexing- 
ton and Concord were close at hand. In the midst of so 
much beauty, and so many associations of the past, I 
could hardly believe myself in the city of the dead. 
But a glance through the trees exhibited, in every direc- 
tion, the monuments which the living had erected over 
the departed. 

The ground is laid out in lots of sufficient size for con- 
taining the graves of a family. The proprietor, each for 
himself, incloses his lot with an iron fence, and orna- 
ments it with shrubbery and flowers. In the center of 
the lot is a monument, on which are inscribed the names 
of those whose graves are made in the inclosure. There 
is great variety exhibited in the style of the monuments, 
each proprietor consulting his own taste. Some are of 
marble, some of sandstone, and some of granite. Their 
shapes and sizes vary, some being plain and neat, others 
gorgeous and extravagantly expensive. Some of the 
inscriptions are simple and beautiful, others labored and 
in bad taste. 

Though nature has formed this place the most variedly 
beautiful that can well be imagined, and the resources 
of ancient and modern taste have been freely expended 
in adding to it the decorations of art, yet I would not 
desire to be buried here. There is too much pomp, and 
show, and circumstance about it. There is an apparent 
eifort to carry the artificial distinctions of this world to 
the grave. Let me not be buried in so public a place, 



MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 33 

nor in the crowded city, where my body, hurried by the 
hired sexton through the busy streets, must be consigned 
to the grave, where the idle passer-by may disturb the 
loved one, that comes at night-fall to drop the tear of 
affection on the turf that covers me. When I am dead, 
let me be borne from my cottage home on the shoulders 
of sympathizing neighbors to the church where I was 
accustomed to worship. From thence let me be carried 
to the rural burying-place. Let there the beautiful 
burial-service be said over my poor body, and a hymn 
be sung by voices that have loved me. There let me 
rest, where the sparrow may build her nest unscared, 
save when the foot of an affectionate wife, or a beloved 
child, or a valued friend, may press down the wild flowers 
that grow on my grave. 

There is something peculiarly interesting to me about 
the old graveyards of New England. You will some- 
times, in traveling through the country, unexpectedly 
pass a graveyard, strangely populous for the place where 
it is located. It may be near a small village, or it may 
be away from the present population, surrounded on 
every side by a forest of pines. There lie successive 
buried generations. The old, dilapidated, moss-covered 
stones, in many a quaint inscription, tell the story of 
some old pilgrim of a generation long since past. You 
will often find in these ancient cemeteries many a name 
familiar to you — many a name highly honored in the his- 
tory of the country — many a name that is handed down 
from generation to generation, associated with noble 
deeds. But it is not so at Mount Auburn. You find 
there the names of few known to the country. There is 
little there to associate the present with the past. The 
proprietors, with few exceptions, appear to be the mer- 
chants of Boston, known only in their own business 
circles. There are, however, a few monuments erected 



34 MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 

by societies and benevolent individuals over the remains 
of those whose memories will long be cherished. I 
noticed particularly a neat little monument erected by 
the scholais of one of the Boston schools in memory of 
their teacher, one erected by the ladies of a neighboring 
town over their pastor, one to Hannah Adams, by her 
female friends, and one by the Massachusetts Agricul- 
tural Society to Thomas Gr. Fessenden, who has done 
more, perhaps, for the promotion of scientific agriculture 
than any other man. 

I looked in vain among these memorials of the dead for 
the name of one dear to myself — a name associated as it 
was in my mind with many recollections of the past, and 
with such genius and goodness as rarely fall to the lot of 
man — the name of B. B. Thatcher. I know not as he 
was buried here. I felt, however, disappointed; for I 
had reason to hope the world would not let such a man 
as Thatclier pass from among us without a stone to tell 
where he lies. I know not, however, but his friends 
interpreted literally, and sacredly obeyed his ''last re- 
quest," published a short time before his death. 

" Bury me by the ocean's side — 
O, give me a grave on the verge of the deep, 

'Where the noble tide, 
When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweep ; 

And the glistening surf 

Shall burst o'er the turf. 
And bathe my cold bosom in death as I sleep. 

Bury me by the deep, 
Where a living footstep may never tread ; 

And come not to weep — 
0, wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead I 

But leave me the dirge 

Of the breaking surge. 
And the silent tears of the sea on my head. 

And grave no Parian praise; 
Gather no liloom for the heartless tomb, 

And burn no holy blaze 
To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom ; 



1 

\ 



MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 35 

For the holier light 
Of the star-eyed night, 
And the violet moruiug my rest will illume ; 

And honors more dear 
Than of sorrow and love shall be strowu on ray clay, 

By the young, green year, 
With its fragrant dews and crimson array. 

0, leave me to sleep 

On the verge of the deep, 
Till the skies and the seas shall have passed away." 

Lot Thatcher can not soon be forgotten. His genius, his 
modesty, his goodness, his purity of character, have em- 
balmed his memory in the hearts of all who ever knew 
him. 

W^hile I was thinking of Thatcher, I wandered along 
over many a ridge and many a dale, and unexpectedly 
came upon a scene that touched my heart more keenly 
than any thing my visit had yet presented. On a neat 
little mound rested a granite slab, surmounted by a mar- 
ble table, standing on four small columns. On the gran- 
ite, protected from the weather by the table over it, 
rested a sculptured marble couch, on which was reclining 
the perfect figure of a child, a little girl perhaps four or 
five years old, with her little hands folded on her breast, 
in all the sweet loveliness and melancholy beauty which 
often so strikingly appear in the early dead. The face 
was apparently beautiful by nature, but rendered still 
more interesting by the silent beauty of death. The 
smile of innocence was on the lips — the smile that death 
could not remove — the smile that appeared as if some 
angel had a hand in forming it — the smile that spoke 
of heaven. On the monument was simply inscribed the 
name, Emily. I know not when I have met with any 
thing that so touched my heart. The scene brought up 
before me the image of many a lovely one whom I had 
seen in youthful beauty deposited in the grave. The 
emotions, the thoughts of that hour can not soon be for- 



3d MT. AUBURN CEMETERY. 

gotten. I lingered over the picture, nor minded the 
lapse of time, till the sun of a long summer day was 
gone down, and the shades of evening were falling 
around me. I looked up and found that the numerous 
visitors who had been wandering, as well as myself, 
among these haunts of melancholy interests, had all 
departed, and the gates were shut. 

" I felt like one who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, 
And all but me departed." 

Slowly and sadly I retired. The keeper observed me 
approaching, and uncomplainingly, and even kindly, 
opened again the gate for me. Alone I returned to the 
city, where I arrived just as the last lights of evening 
were disappearing. 



PROVIDENCE. 37 



PROVIDENCE. 

There is, in tlie constitution of the world, a wonderful 
relation of tilings, which can only be referred to Provi- 
dence. The atmosphere surrounds the earth, and ex- 
tends some distance from it. The water covers a large 
portion of its surface^ Heat, drawn mostly from the sun, 
but modified by collateral influences, is constantly active. 
The combined action of these agencies induces and main- 
tains the condition of things indispensably necessary to 
the existence of living beings. The absence of either of 
these agencies would be fatal to every man, and every an- 
imal, and every insect, and every plant on this globe. 
The undue preponderance of either over the others would 
be equally fatal. No human power could so combine 
these agencies, and mete out their several influences, as 
to produce the required result. The heat causes the 
winds to blow, while the winds temper and distribute the 
heat. The heat causes the water to rise in vapor. The 
air supports the vapor. The heat rarifying the air, the 
vapors descend in showers, tempering the heat as they 
descend. Thus is kept up an eternal round of action, in 
which each agent alternately acts on the others, and is 
itself acted on by each of them. It is in the managing 
and the controlling of these distinct and antagonistic 
agencies — in the eflTecting, from their combined action, a 
determinate result, and in the providing against disturb- 
ances that might arise from the undue influence of any 
one, that we see the wisdom of Providence. 

The earth, however, forms but a small part of the ma- 
terial universe. There are known to be, in the solar 
4 



38 PROVIDENCE. 

system, other planets like the earth, and some of them 
inconceivably larger. There are also smaller bodies at- 
tendant on the planets. All these bodies are in motion. 
The earth moves in its orbit more than sixty thousand 
miles an hour — a velocity a thousand times greater than 
that of the steam car over its iron track. The secondary 
planets, or moons, have also a movement around their pri- 
maries, in addition to the movement of both around the 
sun. There are belonging to the system an unknown num- 
ber of bodies, called comets, moving in very eccentric or- 
bits, sometimes approaching very near the sun, then darting 
away into distant and unknown regions. All these bodies, 
moving with inconceivable velocity, and liable to a thou- 
sand disturbances by their mutual attractions, have yet 
moved on, each in its own path, and all in regular order 
and harmony, for six thousand years. It is the eye of 
Providence that watches them in their course — it is the 
hand of Providence that guides them — it is the intelli- 
gence of Providence that foresees and provides against 
the disturbances to which they might be subject. 

But the system of planets moving about the sun is far 
from being the whole, or even a considerable part of the 
material universe. You may, on any clear night, see, 
without the aid of telescopes, at least one thousand stars, 
each as large as our sun, and each probably surrounded 
by a system of planets as numerous as those of our own 
system. When you bring the telescope to the aid of your 
eye, you may see, in the distant regions of space, thou- 
sands of thousands of stars, each surrounded by its own 
system of planets — each forming the center of that 
system, and distributing light and heat to every part. 
To all these systems of worlds the care of Providence 
extends. There is existing a relation not only between 
the several parts of each system, but all the parts are 
connected in one grand system — one whole — one universe. 



PROVIDENCE. 39 

There is a movement of the systems themselves around 
some common center. What that center is, and how 
long is the period of revolution, no human philosopher 
can tell. But the eye of Providence is over the whole. 
This movement within a movement, this complicated 
machinery of the universe, is all under his constant di- 
rection. The motions of each planet around its center — 
the motions of the systems around the common center — 
the times, directions, distances, and velocities, are all 
provided for. To human eye each planet might seem to 
pursue its journey unconscious of any connection with 
the other bodies of its system — each system might seem 
independent of all other systems; yet the unseen hand 
of Providence unites them all together in one harmonious 
whole. 

Thus we see the wisdom and power of Providence in 
the material universe — in bodies having no intelligence, 
no will, no free agency. In the moral universe, in the 
history of man, there is another movement to provide 
for — the free agency of man — the power to will and to do 
according to his own pleasure. The acts of men are sel- 
dom intended by the performers to have any reference to 
the designs of Providence; yet all human agency becomes, 
in the end, subservient to the accomplishment of his 
great purposes. Men act independently of each other; 
and yet their acts are all linked together. In the history 
of the world, each generation of men, each nation, each 
community, each individual has pursued its own course, 
for the accomplishment of its own purposes, independent 
and regardless of those who went before and those who 
might come after; and yet each has contributed, perhaps 
equally, to perform the several parts composing the grand 
designs of Providence. The world is a stage. Each 
generation, as it comes on, performs its part, as it pleases, 
regardless alike of the acts of its predecessors or sue- 



40 PROVIDENCE. 

cessors ; and yet these independent parts, under the 
superintendence of Providence, form one grand and per- 
fect drama. The free agency of man extends only to the 
performance of the act. It can not control the ultimate 
consequences of the act. When, therefore, the action is 
performed, the power of the actor ceases. But the con- 
sequences of human action may extend through all time. 
Over these human agency has no control. But Provi- 
dence superintends, and overrules, and uses them all for 
the accomplishing of his own designs. 

The history of the world abounds in illustrations of 
this view of the doctrine of Providence. That beautiful 
story, in the sacred writings, of the ten Hebrews and 
their brother, will readily occur to the reader. Envy 
toward Joseph induced his brethren to sell him to a com- 
pany of strangers. The act was one of great enormity. 
Its ostensible design was to defeat the purposes of Prov- 
idence. " Let us see," said they, as they were conspir- 
ing against the child, " what will become of his dreams." 
But the very act by which these men intended to defeat 
one of the great purposes of Providence, became, when 
once it had passed out of the power of the actors, the 
very means of accomplishing that purpose. 

There are, in the history of the world, two great events, 
which, from their prominence, may be selected as illus- 
trations of our subject. 

The first is the conquest of Italy, and the western 
Roman empire, by the barbarous tribes of northern Eu- 
rope. Italy, under the Roman emperors, was a civilized, 
an enlightened, a religious country. The refinement, the 
arts, the learning of the world, were all deposited there. 
The tribes of northern Europe knew nothing of refine- 
ment, nothing of the arts, nothing of literature, nothing 
of Christianity. From their primeval forests, from their 
rugged hills, they poured down in countless numbers on 



PROVIDENCE. 41 

the cultivated vales of Italy. From tlicir rude touch the 
arts shrunk. At their approach learning retired to con- 
vents and monastic cells. Humanity shuddered at the 
coming desolation of all that was good and fair. But the 
watchful eye of Providence was over the scene; and 
Christianity, daughter of heaven, stood her ground, when 
civilization, and art, and learning forsook it and fled. By 
her influence the conqueror was conquered, the vanquisher 
vanquished. The result was, that both parties, the Ital- 
ian and the northern invader, were mutually benefited, and 
the interests of Christianity and of civil liberty pro- 
moted. A new order of things, a new form of civiliza- 
tion commenced, and the Christian religion was intro- 
duced into all the tribes and kingdoms of Europe. 

The second great event of history to which we allude, 
is the fixll of Constantinople, and the conquest of the east- 
ern Roman empire by the Turks. During that long period 
usually called the dark ages, Constantinople formed one 
bright spot, around which yet lingered the twilight of 
literature. It stood on the soil of classic Greece. It 
formed the outpost of Christendom. For eight centuries 
the Christian world had been waging a doubtful war with 
Mohammedanism. The cross and the crescent had alter- 
nately prevailed in Asia, till Mohammedanism had ac- 
quired undisputed control over all those fair regions, and 
was now approaching the very gate of Europe. Constan- 
tinople was that gate. Let that be battered down, and 
the resistless tide of Moslemism might sweep over the 
lovely vales of Greece, dash over the Alps, and desolate 
every country of Christendom. During the storming of 
the city, which lasted for nearly two months, the world 
was looking on, awaiting the result with intense anxiety. 
At last the crisis came, the Moslems triumphed, and 
Constantinople fell. The tidings flew to every city and 

every hamlet of Europe. To the heart of the patriot the 

4* 



42 PROVIDENCE. 

event brought dismay — to the friends of learning it ap- 
peared that the last glimmering of twilight had disap- 
peared, and night — a night that might know no morn- 
ing — had come upon the world — to the Christian it 
brought the extinction of his hopes for the universal 
triumph of the Gospel. An icy chill came over men. 
They sat down and looked at each other in sullen 
despair. 

But the imperial city of Constantine fell not unobserved 
by the all-seeing eye of Providence. Her Christian 
Churches were not converted to Moslem mosques without 
his notice. The Saracen might do his utmost : his hour 
was come. Let him enjoy it. Here, however, was the 
" beginning of the end." He might take the city — he 
might disperse the inhabitants; but he could not control 
nor direct the ultimate consequences of his acts. 

The city, falling into the hands of the Turks, was 
sacked and pillaged, and the inhabitants dispersed 
abroad. They fled for security and protection to the 
cities and villages of Europe. They were, in general, a 
refined and accomplished people, having a national and 
hereditary adaptedness to the pursuits of taste and litera- 
ture. Of this their conqueror could not deprive them. 
He might destroy the books which he found deposited in 
the city, but he could not destroy the Greek language nor 
the Greek mind. The exiled citizens carried with them 
their learning and their taste. They became teachers in 
the villages of Europe. Every stray particle of that 
twilight which had so long hung around Constantinople, 
now became a sun, dispensing light to those who sat in 
darkness. The result was glorious. The morning soon 
appeared. The darkness of the thousand years was dis- 
pelled. The human mind arose from its long sleep. 
There followed the discovery of the art of printing, of the 
mariner's compass, of the telescope, and of the new world. 



PROVIDENCE. 48 

The conquest of Constantinople, which seemed, to 
human view, to secure permanent and universal success 
to the Ottoman power, laid the foundation for its ultimate 
ruin. Mohammedanism belonged to a dark age. It 
could not flourish in the light. Intercourse with other 
nations must, in the very nature of things, modify, and 
in the end essentially change those peculiarities of cir- 
cumstance and of character to which it owed its success. 
This the Moslems of the fifteenth century, when they 
were storming the walls of Constantinople, did not foresee. 
It is true, the Turk still has a name and a place among 
the nations; but that name no longer strikes terror to 
the heart of the Christian, and that place is far down in 
the scale of nations. The crescent has long been wan- 
ing, and is now but a single line of light. The Turk 
still dwells in Istamboul; but he has been driven from 
Athens, and from Sparta, and from Thebes, and from 
Corinth. In the onward march of the nations, and in 
his own obstinate, pertinacious, and sullen refusal to 
adopt their improvements, he reads his doom. 

The two great events to which we have alluded, are by 
no means the only ones in which is clearly seen the over- 
ruling hand of Providence. The history of the world 
would seem to form one great chain. The several links 
were made, each by different men, at different shops, and 
in regions far distant from each other. None knew, as 
he was hammering out, and shaping his own part, that it 
was to have any connection with any other link. But 
Providence, by an unseen hand, has joined the parts all 
together, and formed a chain encircling the globe, reach- 
ing back to the time when the morning stars sang to- 
gether at creation's birth, and terminating only when the 
same stars, at the evening twilight of time, shall sing its 
requiem. 

As Providence effects his designs by human agents, it 



44 PROVIDENCE. 

may be that the errors and the faults of men, in enter- 
prises of reform, may retard, though they can not defeat 
the accomplishment of his purposes. Yet even apparent 
delay in the accomplishment of a good enterprise, may 
be the very means of ultimate success. There is a winter 
in the moral as well as in the physical world. In winter 
ephemeral vegetation dies, but not the perennial plant. 
To this, winter is the season of rest and of preparation 
for a more vigorous growth. So is it in moral enterprises. 
Seasons of rest there may be ; but it is only to gather 
strength. Moral enterprises may seem to suffer retro- 
gression ; but it is only like the river which reaches some 
barrier thrown across its way, and which flows back till it 
may gather such an accumulation of weight as to break 
down the obstacle. The history of the world, indeed, 
forms a great river. Its sources, like those of our own 
Mississippi, are far distant from each other — one in the 
mountains of the setting sun, and another where first 
falls his rising beam — one in the icy fountains of the 
frozen north, and another in the broad plains of the 
isunny south. Its tributary streams may seem to flow in 
any and in every direction, and may continually be 
changing their course, winding around hills, and mean- 
dering through vales, but their destiny is onward, onward 
still. An invisible power controls them, and at last they 
all unite in one broad, deep channel, and flow on, through 
time, toward the illimitable and fathomless bosom of 
eternity. 

Providence regards not only the elements of nature, 
the universe of matter, and the prominent events of his- 
tory, but also the personal interests of individuals. That 
same eye that watches the motion of the stars, regards 
the humblest of his creatures. "Without his notice time 
plucks not a hair from the temple of age. Nor need we 
fear lest we be overlooked amidst the profusion of his 



PROVIDENCE. 46 

works. We can not go where lie rules not. Could we 
mount the wings of the morning sunbeam, and be borne 
away to the most distant isle of the ocean, his power 
would be there still. 

" Should fate command me 
To the farthest verge of the green earth — 
Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isle, 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where he vital breathes, there must be joy." 



46 THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

The White Mountains of New Hampshire form a con- 
spicuous and interesting point in the scenery of New 
England. From earliest childhood I had gazed on their 
aerial summits with admiration and wonder. From the 
hill near which I first opened my eyes on this beautiful 
world, I might see, far above and beyond the towers and 
steeples of the distant city that arose in that direction, 
the snow-colored peaks of those magnificent hills. When 
I left the place of my birth, and went many miles east, 
to spend the maturer days of childhood, there still tow- 
ered up before me those noble piles. From the hills that 
skirted the evergreen plains, on which was located the 
venerable institution where I spent the maturer days of 
youth, these mountains might still be seen. And when 
I had become a man, and settled in my own humble cot- 
tage, on a hill far from the ocean-dashed clifi" where I 
had listened to the incessant roaring of the waves, there 
still rose up in solitary grandeur, far above all interven- 
ing peaks, the granite summit of Mount Washington. 
Nor could I travel in any direction without encountering, 
often as I ascended an eminence, the distant view of 
these everlasting mountains. They had become asso- 
ciated with the dreams of childhood, the reveries of 
youth, and the sober thoughts of manhood. I had often 
looked, at evening, on those lofty peaks, looming up into 
the clear sky, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, 
and wondered what might be concealed among their dark 
ravines and gloomy dells — what scenes of picturesque 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 47 

beauty might be enjoyed from their bright summits — 
what "better land/' what fairy region might lie beyond. 
In the summer of 1836, having a few weeks of leisure, 
1 resolved to visit these mountains. In company with 
several friends I started on the excursion. We proceeded 
through a delightful country of varied scenery — lofty 
hills, deep valleys, broad rivers, and mountain torrents — 
till on the second day we arrived at Fryeburg, on the 
Saco river, thirty miles from the White Jlountains, al- 
though it appears at their very base. Fryeburg is one of 
the most lovely spots on earth. It is a village of about 
one hundred houses, in a beautiful valley, through which 
the Saco winds with a course so meandering as to make 
a distance of more than thirty miles within sight of the 
village. This valley is encircled by lofty hills, rising one 
above another, with the White Mountains towering above 
the whole. Lovely, quiet, and peaceful as this place now 
appears, it was once the theater of one of the most des- 
perate and bloody battles that history or tradition has 
ever recorded. A century ago this was the home of the 
Saco Indians, the most warlike and powerful of all the 
tribes of the north. It was also the grand rendezvous 
of all the hostile tribes in this region, and was the prin- 
cipal link in the chain of communication between the 
tribes of New England and those of Canada. From this 
point they issued out in hostile incursions, carrying death 
to the settlements for a hundred miles in every direction. 
Many a mother fell bleeding under the tomahawk — many 
an infant was dashed against the stones. A company 
was formed at Boston, under one of the most intrepid 
leaders of those brave times, for the purpose of breaking 
up this haunt of merciless savages. They went prepared 
to effect their purpose, or perish in the attempt. They 
made their way through an unbroken wilderness, more 
than fifty miles beyond the frontiers; found their ene- 



48 tTHE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

mies in their native recess; posted themselves by a small 
lake that admitted of no retreat; and there fought, some 
of them in single combat by deliberate challenge, till 
scarcely one on either side was left to tell the story. 
The trunks of the trees, yet standing on the borders of 
the lake, attest, after the lapse of a century, the desper- 
ate conflict, of which they are the only surviving wit- 
nesses. Countless marks are yet seen where the ball 
lodged in their trunks, and has been since extracted by 
the curious or the idle. 

After viewing this memorable battle-ground, and rest- 
ing for a night in the hospitable mansion of a venerable 
friend, we proceeded on our way, up the valley of the 
Saco, winding among precipitous hills, exhibiting at 
every turn the most varied scenery. When near the cel- 
ebrated notch, where the hills approach so near the 
river's brink as to leave scarcely room for a carriage, we 
suddenly met a thunder-storm. The river dashing along 
from rock to rock — the hills towering precipitously high 
up beyond the dark clouds — the rain pouring down in 
torrents — the thunder redoubled manifold by its reverb- 
eration among the hills, and the lightning leaping from 
peak to peak, formed altogether a scene sublime beyond 
description. The whole company, overwhelmed by their 
emotions, involuntarily stopped in the open road. One 
of them, unable to restrain his feelings, leaped from his 
carriage, fell on his knees, then prostrated his face to the 
earth, and uttered ejaculations of admiration to the name 
of Jehovah. It was near this spot, where, a few years 
before, a whole family had been overwhelmed by an ava- 
lanche from the mountain. A slide had started from the 
summit and come down with resistless force, bearing the 
huge rocks and trees with it. It was night. The family, 
as it is supposed, were aroused from sleep by the thun- 
dering approach of the avalanche. They leaped from 



THE WHITE aiOUNTAINS. 49 

their beds, tliey fled from their home, they ran for their 
lives, but rushed into the grasp of death. The avalanche, 
just before it reached the house, divided, going oiF in 
diflFerent directions, leaving the house uninjured, but 
overtaking the family, and burying every one of them 
deep beneath the ruins of the mountain. The house was 
standing when we passed. No living creature was seen 
about it but a solitary mouse, which we scared from one 
of the deserted rooms. 

A few miles beyond this spot we came to the narrow 
defile called the notch. Here the river, now dwindled to 
a brook which a child might leap over, makes its way 
through a pass so narrow as to afford but barely sufficient 
space for a carriage, while on each side the granite clifi"s 
rise to a great hight, sometimes perpendicular, and some- 
times jutting over as if about to fall and crush the un- 
wary traveler. After passing the notch, we came to an 
open but elevated plain, where we found a comfortable 
house of entertainment. Here we rested for the night, 
intending to ascend the mountain in the morning. Aris- 
ing in the morning, bright and early, we procured a 
guide and prepared for the ascent. We plunged into a 
dense forest of evergreen, and with many a weary step 
clambered up the steep ascent. As we proceeded the 
trees became "few and far between," and dwindled to 
mere dwarfs. After climbing up, up, up, for a distance 
of about two miles, we reached the summit of the first 
mountain. This was a plain of great extent, command- 
ing a fine view in every direction. Here we saw the sum- 
mit of Mount Washington, the highest of the group, 
distant four miles. For more than three miles the path 
lay along this elevated table-land, with slight depressions 
and elevations, though gradually rising, exhibiting new 
views of distant scenery with every change of position, 
till we reached the foot of the last peak, that of Mount 

5 



50 THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Washington itself. Here we rested for awhile, and took 
a refreshing drink of water from a clear and cold spring. 
Thus prepared we commenced the tedious ascent over 
naked rocks, broken into countless fragments, piled one 
above another, and bleached by the storms of ages. At 
last we gained the highest peak of this enormous pyra- 
mid. The atmosphere was clear, only a light cloud occa- 
sionally passed over the sun. This, however, added to 
the interest of the scene. The flitting shadow of a 
cloud, moving rapidly over the mountain, and traced in 
its progress for many miles, as it was borne south by the 
north wind, was a spectacle which I had often admired 
in a hilly country, but which I had never before seen on 
so grand a scale. 

The view from Mount Washington combines the beau- 
tiful, the grand, and the sublime. You have before you, 
on the south, the Saco, winding its devious passage among 
precipitous hills, till it escapes in the broad plains of 
Fryeburg. Far away in the south is spread out before 
you the illimitable Atlantic. On the east you see the 
Androscoggin, winding, for many miles, through an un- 
broken wilderness, then issuing out among cultivated 
fields and beautiful villages. On the west you see, far 
over the hills, the valley of the Connecticut, and the dis- 
tant range of the Green Mountains beyond. On the 
north you look on an ocean of mountains of various forms 
and sizes, covered with forests of every variety of ever- 
green. So elevated is Mount Washington above all other 
hills in the neighborhood, that you may look down on 
every object as far as the laws of vision will permit. I 
recognized many a town, lake, and stream, which I had 
known in the regions below. I looked for my own hum- 
ble cottage, three days' journey distant, but it was lost in 
the dimness of distance. 

I can never forget my visit to those magnificent piles 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 51 

of nature's own forming. Years have since passed away 
In the mean time I have exchanged the magnificent hills, 
on which my eye rested from childhood, for the equally- 
magnificent plains of the west. But still the beauty and 
grandeur of the view from Mount Washington, form a 
vivid picture on which I love to look. This picture seems 
to form a part of my very soul. It is to me one of the 
connecting links that bind the present to the memory of 
the past. 



52 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

From the deep, dark recesses of the past, there comes 
to the ear of philosophy and of reHgion a voice of warn- 
ing and of wisdom. It comes from the plains of Chal- 
dea; it rises from the vales of Palestine; it murmurs 
out from the tombs of the Nile ; its echoes are heard 
from Parnassus, and from Helicon, and from Olympus; 
it is heard booming over the waters from the shores of 
the old world, and from the isles of the ocean. Let us 
listen what it says. 

1. The past speaks to us of the vanity of human great- 
ness. Its language seems to be addressed to me, and to 
all, who have affinity of soul to appreciate its teachings. 
It seems to say. Who art thou, man, son of earth, 
being of a day, who exaltest thyself with the vain notion 
of greatness ? Listen to the story of those who have, in 
my time, traveled the same road in which thou art now 
journeying. There was once a great king, who ruled 
over the land of the Nile. All whom he met paid him 
reverence. Millions rose up at his bidding, and came 
and went again at his command. In the pride of his 
heart, he built him a city, from whose hundred gates 
there issued out a hundred thousand warriors, all clad in 
armor, ready to carry dominion, destruction, and death 
wherever he listed. He erected a statue, which, by some 
curious mechanism, saluted, with strange music, the ris- 
ing sun. He called for his obeisant slaves, and they 
went to the quarry of living rock, and dug from the 
mountain side the gigantic block, and by means un- 
known to modern times transported the huge masses to 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 53 

the plains, and there erected a pyramid, to serve as a 
place of burial for his body, and to perpetuate his name. 
But of his hundred-gated city nothing but ruins remains. 
His statue has fallen, and no longer emits its tones of 
music. His pyramid yet stands ; but of the body it was 
intended to preserve, not a vestige, not a particle of dust 
remains ; ■while his name, his very name is lost, lost for- 
ever, nor will its echo ever again fall on human ear. 

There came another, and he ruled over the plains of 
Chaldea. His dominion extended over the Euphrates 
and Tigris, filmed in song. By unhallowed, yet success- 
ful war, he extended his sway over the Jordan, whose 
waters were sacred to the chosen people of the Most 
High, and over the sweet-gliding Kedron. At noonday, 
he walked out on his palace roof, and looked over the 
magnificent city he had built, and boasted that he was 
greater than all kings, and even aspired to equal the 
Most High, saying. Is not this great Babylon, which I 
have built for the city of my glory, and for the eternal 
habitation of my people ? But while he was yet speak- 
ing, there came a voice from the deep, saying, " How art 
thou fallen from heaven, thou son of the morning ! 
How art thou, which didst weaken the nations, cut down 
to the ground ! Thy pomp is brought down to the grave 
with the voice of thy music. Hell from beneath is 
moved to meet thee at thy coming. It stirreth up the 
dead for thee, even the chief ones of the earth. It hath 
raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. 
They all speak to thee, and say, 'Art thou also become 
as one of us ? Art thou also weak as we ? Thou that 
didst strike the people in wrath with a continual stroke ; 
thou that didst rule the nations in anger; thou that didst 
say in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt 
myself above the stars of God, I will ascend above the 
bights of the clouds, I will be like the Most High, even 



64 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

thou art brought clown to the pit, thy staff is broken, thy 
arm palsied, and from thy iron grasp the oppressed hath 
escaped.' " And where now is the great city of the 
Chaldean monarch ? Where is Babylon, the metropolis 
of cities and the glory of kingdoms? Alas ! it is swept 
by the besom of destruction. The Arabian pitches not 
his tent there; the shepherd makes not his fold there; 
but the wild beast of the desert makes his lair there, and 
the moping owl hoots out from the broken fragments of 
fallen fanes, and the bittern screams over the stagnant 
pools that cover the plain where the great city once 
stood. As for the boastful hero himself, his name only 
remains on the records of time. Not one remnant of his 
greatness, not one vestige of his power, not one monu- 
ment of his pride survives ; not one drop of his blood 
flows in the veins of any human creature. 

Next came he of Persia's wide-extended realms. In 
his arrogance he scourged the sea for having interfered 
with his plans. Along Thermopylaj's defiles he marched 
his countless hosts. A hundred years passed, and his 
warriors were gone, his obeisant followers gone, all gone; 
his kingdom was subverted, and himself forgotten. 

There came another, he of Macedon, pre-eminently 
called the Great, the self-styled son of Ammon. On the 
utmost boundaries of the habitable globe the tramp of 
his fiery steed was heard. From the jungles of the 
Indus the tiger was startled by the clattering of his 
hosts. When he had conquered the world, he sat down 
on the shores of the Indian ocean, and wept that there 
was not another world to conquer. But where is he 
now? What remains of him but his name? Who 
knows the place of his grave ? Where is his kingdom — 
his kingdom of universal dominion ? 

Next came he of the sunny Tiber. Before him the 
swift Parthian fled, and from his warlike strokes the 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 55 

fierce Gaul recoiled. The rude Briton, dwelling in the 
■ultima tliule of the ocean, trembled at his name. Tc 
him the liberty-loving people of republican Rome offered 
a crown, which he wisely refused in name, yet received 
in fact. His empire he bounded by the ocean, his fame 
by the stars. The city where he dwelt men called the 
eternal. And what now remains of him or of the eter- 
nal city of his home ? Of the one it was long ago said, 
there were none so poor as to do him reverence, and of 
the other, nothing but the wreck is left. 

There came another. From the shores of the frozen 
north he rushed down on the plains of Italy. He boast- 
fully said, that not a blade of gi'ass ever grew beneath 
where his horse had trod. His legions of wild and sav- 
age barbarians did his bidding in spoiling the earth, and 
sacking its cities, and deluging its plains with blood. 
But his horse's tramp has long since ceased to sound, 
and the grass has grown green again. Himself lies un- 
known and unhonored beneath the Busentian waters. 
His hosts have vanished like a shadow, and the earth is 
at rest again. 

Ages passed away, and there came another. The 
thrones of Castile and Arragon, and of the empire of 
the Rhine and the Danube, he molded into one, and sat 
upon it. Across the ocean waste he sent his ships to 
the Indian isles, and to the continents of the north and 
the south. His standard was erected, his name and 
authority proclaimed on the Cordilleras of Mexico and 
the Andes of Peru. The empire of the Montezumas 
and of the Incas fell an easy prey. Gold was poured 
into his coffers, and glory surrounded his temples. An 
age passed, and the glory and the greatness of Europe's 
Charles was voluntarily laid aside. Tired of his crown, 
as a child of its toys, he threw it away. He let go his 
hold on power, came down from his throne, and hid 



56 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

himself away in a retired monastery. Another age 
passed, and the empire he had yielded up had fallen to 
pieces. Its Germanic possessions were passed to other 
hands; its Indian islands, all, save one, were fallen to 
other owners. Of the transatlantic continent, Mexico, 
with its mines of silver, and Peru, with its rivers of 
gold, nothing remained. 

There came another still. From the Mediterranean 
isle he suddenly blazed with dazzling brilliancy on the 
eyes of men. The darkness of despotic power retired 
before him. At his approach the thrones of kings tot- 
tered, and fell, and crumbled. Kings and queens came 
down on the plain, and bowed the knee, and kissed his 
hand. He stamped on the earth, and there sprang up 
men armed to the teeth, ready to do battle for him, 
either on the burning sands of Egypt, or along the 
sunny plains of Italy, or amid the interminable forests 
of Russia. He brought down the eagle of Austria, grap- 
pled with the bear of Russia, and kept at bay the lion 
of England. His power knew no resistance, his ambi- 
tion no bounds. The people flung their caps in the air, 
and cried. Long live Napoleon, Emperor of the French ! 
But over the spirit of his dream there came a change. 
His star, which had shone resplendent on all the land- 
scape, was shorn of its beams in the murky atmosphere 
of Waterloo. It finally set, quenched forever of its 
fires, in the Atlantic Ocean. Far away in the waste of 
waters, where gallant ship seldom sails, rises high toward 
heaven a bleak and barren rock. Here were spent the 
latter days, and here was made the grave of him who 
made the earth tremble. 

" Hark, comes there from the pyramids, 
Or from Siberia's wastes of snow, 
Or Europe's fields, a voice that bids 
The workl he awed to moui-n him ? No. 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 57 

The only, the perpetual dirge 
That's heard there is the seabird's cry, 

The mouruful murmur of the surge, 
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh." 

Thus speaks the past of human greatness. Alas ! how 
vain is greatness ! It passes like the shadow of a sum- 
mer cloud over the landscape. The eye is upon it, and 
it is not. 

" The rush of numerous jears hears down, 
The most gigantic strength of man, 
And where is all his wisdom gone. 
When dust he turns to dust again?" 

2. The past speaks of the perfectibility of human 
nature. Greatness is only comparative. It implies that 
one is above another. Were there no object of compar- 
ison we could have no ideas of greatness. In estimating 
greatness we usually limit our comparisons to the pres- 
ent; but in estimating the improvement of man, and his 
progress toward perfection, we compare one age with 
another. As man in his individual character passes 
through four stages of existence — childhood, youth, man- 
hood, and age — so in his collective or national character 
there are four similar periods. Every nation, every gov- 
ernment, has its infancy, its youth, its maturity, and as 
surely its decline. As surely as the human body has in 
its inmost nature the elements of decay, so every human 
institution has in its constitution the elements of disso- 
lution. 

Man, as a race, has had his infancy and his youth, and 
he may have, somewhere in the future, his maturity, and 
away in distant ages, his period, not of decay, but of 
change of sphere. But the past speaks to us only of 
infancy and of youth. She knows nothing of maturity, 
nothing of decay, in the history of human nature. 
While individual man dies, while nations cease to be, 
the race dies not, human nature ceases not to exist. 



58 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

Man improves in knowledge. From the very dawn of 
human existence the race has gone on constantly increas- 
ing in science. From the time when Tubal-cain first 
began to handle brass and iron, man has been advancing 
toward perfection in the arts. The ancient mariner ven- 
tured not beyond the isles of the ^gean, or the Medi- 
terranean, while the modern sailor explores 

" Seas not his own, and worlds unknown before." 

The ancient message-bearer trusted only to the speed of 
his foot, or of his horse, while the modern express is 
whizzed along by steam or flashed by lightning. 

Man improves in virtue. There are several species 
of virtue. The principal are political virtue and moral 
virtue. Political virtue is connected with forms of gov- 
ernment. Political, social, and personal freedom are ever 
in proportion to the virtue of the people. In this spe- 
cies of virtue the progress of human society is evident. 
The earlier forms of human government were despotic. 
The one governed the millions. Under the republics 
of Greece and Rome the tens were free, and the thou- 
sands slaves. In the feudal ages the hundreds were free, 
and the thousands still slaves. In modern days, the 
tens, the hundreds, the thousands, the millions, the uni- 
versal race, are rising emancipated, disinthralled, regen- 
erated, to the full measure of perfect and unrestrained 
liberty. Nor is less evident the progress of man in 
moral virtue. Every age develops some new application 
of moral principle, and adds something to the sum of 
human virtue. Nothing has been lost, but much gained. 
There has never been any human virtue, which does not 
yet exist. There have been vices which have ceased to 
exist, and there are new virtues constantly generating. 
So that, on the whole, the race of man is progressing in 
virtue. In the progress of humanity there is no retro- 



THE VOICE or THE PAST. 59 

grade ; the tendency is ever upward ; each, age forms a 
stage in the advancement. The primitive ages cleared 
away the rubbish, and leveled off the site. The classic 
ages prepared the materials, and left them to season. 
The feudal ages laid the foundation. Modern ages are 
carrying up the structure, stage after stage. Up still 
goes the edifice, the great temple of humanity, each age 
taking up the work where the preceding age left it. 

Such are the teachings of the past on the questions 
of human improvement. Her doctrines are sustained by 
the facts of human history, and are delightful to the 
heart of the Christian philosopher, who sees therein sure 
indications of a glorious future. 

3. The past speaks of the omnipotence of truth. 
Truth is a rock in the midst of quicksands. It lies on a 
deep and firm foundation, immovable, though all around 
be fluctuating and changing. Truth is the pure gem, 
which rusts not, and changes not its luster, but shines on 
from age to age with increasing light. Truth is the lever 
which moves the world. By means of it the great work 
of human improvement is effected. Whoever wields this 
lever may be sure of success. 

On the omnipotent prevalence of tinith the past speaks 
in language distinct, explicit, and certain. The past 
tells us of One, who, some two thousand years ago, in an 
obscure village of Palestine, appeared in human form, 
and with human feelings, as the representative of truth 
itself His message, however, was disregarded, himself 
despised and rejected, and his life sacrificed to appease 
an angry mob. Before his departure, however, he called 
to his side twelve men of like passions with ourselves, 
and committed to them the truth which he had come to 
reveal. To these men he assigned the task of changing 
the faith and the religion of the world. They were ob- 
scure and unknown among men, unlearned in the wisdom 



60 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

of tte world, and unaecomplislied in the arts and refine- 
ments of society. But truth rendered them invincible. 
They went before the Jewish Sanhedrim; they stood up 
before governors, and kings, and even the emperor him- 
self, and spoke the words of truth and soberness. Truth 
made them omnipotent. By its power they changed the 
habits, the faith, and even the civil institutions of society. 
Blessed be the man who happily presents to the eye of 
humanity a new truth ! He does a work which never can 
be undone. He plants a seed which can never be up- 
rooted — a seed having in itself life and immortality. It 
may, through unpropitious circumstances, lie for awhile 
dormant. It may be trampled by the rude foot of reck- 
lessness. But 

" Truth cruslied to earth viiW rise again — 
The immortal years of God are hers." 

What matters it, then, thou that lovest truth, whether 
men hear thee, or smite thee? What imports it though 
the world believe or scoff? Truth is immortal, and thou 
shalt share her own immortality. 

4. The past speaks to us of the wisdom and power of 
Providence. Though individual human greatness is 
nothing, yet man is great. Though the individual dies, 
yet the race lives on, ever advancing. Though truth 
may lie long scoffed and neglected, yet she will in the 
end make her voice heard. All this is owing to the 
superintendence of Providence, a power incomprehen- 
sibly higher than human, watching incessantly over hu- 
man affairs. One age has no power to connect itself 
with the past or the future ; but He that sitteth on the 
circle of the heavens; that hath stretched out the north 
over the empty space, and hung the earth on nothing; 
that leadeth forth Arcturus, Orion, and the constellations 
of the south, and that dispenseth the sweet influences 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 61 

of the Pleiades, joins the past, tlie present, and the 
future together by indissoluble links. 

Thus speaks the past for the comfort and hope of man. 
Her voice is one of gladness to the human race. But 
she has another voice, which she sometimes utters in the 
ears of mortals. To me she often speaks with the gentle 
voice of the venerable one, who breathed her prayer over 
my sleeping infancy, but who for thirty years has been 
sleeping on the hill-side that looks out on the Atlantic 
waters. Again she comes, and speaks with the musical 
voice of the fair one, companion of my childhood, who 
rambled with me over the meadows, and by the brook, 
gathering flowers, in the spring-time of life, but whom 
we laid to rest long ago beneath a bower of evergreens 
on my native plains. She comes again, the past — alas! 
she comes too often — amidst my garden walks, and at 
the bower, calling me with the voice of the beauteous 
being, 

" Whom I laid to rest in the lonely bed — 
The lost and the lovely, the early dead." 

I can not but listen to the voice with which the past 
speaks to me, nor can I dispel from my heart the sadness 
which her echoes produce. Though the picture which 
her flitting forms cast on the mirror of my soul be one 
of deep shades, yet I must look on it. 

"0, unrelenting past, 
Strong are the barriers of thy dark domain, 

And fetters sure and fast, 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Thou hast my better years; 
Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind ; 

Yielded to thee with tears, 
The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense,, 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck the captives thence. 

6 



62 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

In vain. Tliy gates deny 
All passage, save to those wlio hence depart, 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou givest them back, nor to the broken heart. 

Thine for a space are they, 
Yet thou shalt give thy treasures up at last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way ; 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable past! 

All that of good and fair 
Hath gone into thy tomb from earliest time, 

Shall then come back to wear 
The beauty and the glory of its prime. 

They have not perished, no. 
Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet, 

Smiles radiant long ago. 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat, 

All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure affection knit again ; 

Alone shall evil die. 
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Her by whose kind, maternal side I sprung, 

And her, who, still and cold. 
Fills the lone grave, the beautiful and young." 



■THERE THE WEARY ARE AT REST." 63 



"THERE THE WEARY ARE AT REST." 

There seems a sweet repose about the place where rest 
tlie dead. The very air seems hushed, or breathes, if it 
breathe at all, a low, plaintive sound, that appears like 
soft music. "Whether I visit the graveyard on a bright 
summer day, or in the depth of winter — in spring or in 
autumn — at early morn, at noon, or at twilight — the same 
quiet, peaceful spirit seems presiding there. I love to 
ramble alone among the graves. To me there is some- 
thing inspiring — something holy about the place. Espe- 
cially are peculiar emotions excited, while standing by the 
graves of those who, while living, occupied a high rank 
in usefulness or fame. I recollect the vivid emotions I 
felt, when, many years ago, wandering about an old grave- 
yard, on the banks of the Connecticut, I unexpectedly 
found myself by the grave of M'Donough. I had read 
of the terrible battle of Champlain, and heard much of 
M'Donough, but I knew not that the warrior was buried 
there, till I stood before the stone that marked his rest- 
ing-place. Similar emotions were excited, on looking at 
the spot where lie the remains of Whitefield. But my 
feelings were never, on such an occasion, more highly ex- 
cited, than when of late I visited the graveyard of a 
neighboring city — a small, but beautiful and retired city, 
•stretching over a lovely plain, on the banks of one of 
our picturesque rivers. It was an evening of spring- 
time, when all was green, and quiet, and beautiful. Pro- 
ceeding some distance from the city, on a street unfre- 
quented, save by the hearse and the funeral train, I came 



64 "there the weary are at rest." 

to the place of rest — the city of the dead — already rival- 
ing in population the living city near by. Here was 
spread out an area of considerable extent, laid out in 
beautiful order, in family lots, and tastefully ornamented 
with shrubbery and flowers. Here is the home of the 
dead. On this sequestered spot nature bestows her gifts 
of beauty and her cheering influence, as well as on the 
homes of the living, in the city of cottages and of gar- 
dens, whose inhabitants are now inhaling the sweet odors 
of spring, and enjoying the mild sunshine of a beautiful 
May day. The same zephyr that whispers through the 
trees of the garden, breathes mildly here, but revives not 
the dead. The same flowers that bloom before the cot- 
tage door, disclose their beauties and shed their perfume 
here, but not for the dead. The same sun that pours his 
morning beam into the cottage window, awaking beauty 
from her slumbers, shines here, but brings no morning to 
those who sleep in these graves. And there is music 
here, too — the sweet, plaintive music of nature — the 
music of bird, and of insect, and of gentle breeze, min- 
gled with the lowing of cattle from the green pastures, 
and the merry peal of the bell in the city ; but those who 
lie here heed it not. 

I passed on among the avenues, by the neat mounds 
raised over the dead, and read the names inscribed on 
the stones. But to me few of the names were familiar. 
I was a stranger here in this city of the dead. Far away 
from this spot are the graves of those whom I have known 
and loved, and who have loved me, as I may never hope 
to be loved again. They lie, some beneath the ocean 
wave, and some on foreign coasts. The grave of one is 
made on the plain of evergreens, beneath the spreading 
branches of the pine, and of another by the side of the 
mountain stream; and I stand here, a stranger among 
the living, and may lie here, a stranger among the dead. 



"there the weary are at rest." 65 

The grave of a stranger never fails to aifect me. I 
can not stand over it, without suffering the deep fount- 
ains of feeling to be broken up, and wave after wave of 
sadness to flow over my soul. Many years ago, when a 
mere child, I was rambling in the populous graveyard 
of the city near my native home; I read the names of 
hundreds familiar to me, with no peculiar emotions; but 
I happened on one grave which made my young heart 
bleed. It was that of a foreigner, a young and gallant 
officer, who fell in a naval engagement in the harbor of 
the city. True, he fell fighting against my country, in a 
desperate battle in the last war, and by his side there lies 
his antagonist, the brave captain of the American ship, 
who fell at the same time ; and they lie side by side, as 
quietly as if they had been in life brothers, instead of 
enemies. But while standing on such a spot, I could not 
think of him as a foe and a warrior, but as a man and a 
stranger — one who had a mother yearning for his return, 
and whose sisters had been long looking, with aching eyes 
and bursting hearts, for him to come home. There he 
lies among strangers, far away from his home; and no 
mother — no sister will ever look on his grave. No friend 
may ever plant a shrub or train a flower on the sod that 
covers him. The skeptic may deride me, the philosopher 
may smile at me, and the Christian may pity my weak- 
ness ; but yet I would not that my last resting-place 
should be among strangers. I would sleep, during the 
long, moonless, starless night of the grave, by the side 
of those whom I have known and loved while living. I 
would that when the night is gone, and the shadows and 
darkness of the tomb are dispersed, and the resurrection 
morning breaks, my opening eyes may meet the eyes of 
friendship and love. I would that the faces on which I 
may then look, may be those familiar to my childhood 
and youth. I would not, then, that my grave should be 



66 "there the weary are at rest." 

the watery deep, though Ocean might wind her funeral 
shell in a requiem over the spot; nor on a foreign shore, 
though my countrymen might erect the monument of 
marble or of granite to commemorate my name; nor even 
here, where I now stand, though the spot be beautified, 
and many a friend of former years might, as he wends 
his way toward the west, turn aside to look at the place 
where I might rest. But let my grave be made in some 
rural, quiet spot, where may lie also my companions and 
friends, my wife and my children. No matter, though, 
in the long lapse of ages, our names be obliterated from 
the decaying stone on which they may be recorded, and 
the very place where we lie be neglected and forgotten. 
Let us lie there together in peace, and in the morning of 
the resurrection, let us together awake, together arise, 
and together meet our blessed Savior, the Lord Jesus 
Christ. 

Near this neat and orderly cemetery, over which I was 
rambling, and which gave rise to these desultory reflec- 
tions, is another of more ancient date, if any thing can be 
called ancient in this youthful country. This latter was 
even more populous than the former. Multitudes of 
graves, unknown and undistinguished, were all around me. 
Little order seemed observed in the location of the graves, 
and little attempt to ornament the grounds. Most of 
those who sleep here were early settlers of the country. 
Their surviving friends, if any survive, have moved away, 
and the old burying-ground is left to be overgrown by 
the wild luxuriance of nature. Near the center of this 
old graveyard is an area of a few square rods, inclosed 
by a plain rural fence. Within the inclosure are native 
shrubs and wild flowers, growing in all the freshness and 
vigor of this climate — a climate better adapted to variety 
and strength of vegetation than any other on the globe. 
In this green spot is a grave, at whose head is an upright 



"there the weary are at rest." 67 

slab of sandstone, on wliich is the following plain and 
simple inscription : 

" In memory ot" 
EEV. JOHN STRANGE, 
who died 
Dec. 2d, 1832, 
In the 44th year of his age, and the 22d of his 
itinerant ministry. 
' They that be wise shall shiue as the brightness of 
the firmament, and they that turn many 
to righteousness as the stars for- 
ever and ever.' " 

Here, then, lies that remarkable man, whose face I never 
saw — whose voice I never heard, but whose name is one 
of the first and the last which the stranger hears in Indi- 
ana. In every part of the state, from the valley of the 
White Water to the Wabash — from the Ohio to the 
shores of Michigan — in the populous city and in the 
obscure hamlet — the name of Strange is but another 
word for eloquence. The old men will sit down in their 
rude cabins, and talk of him by the hour, and relate 
anecdotes of his eccentric genius and irresistible elo- 
quence. 

As I stood over the grave of Strange, and thought of 
the glowing and animated descriptions I had heard of 
his eloquence, I could but regret that it had never been 
my happiness to listen to those thrilling tones which had 
so often fell on many a delighted heart. His eloquence 
must have been unique, peculiar, inimitable, and irresisti- 
ble. Indeed, some have told me that it could not be de- 
scribed. But death heeds not the " voice of the charmer, 
charm he never so wisely ;" and Strange has gone — gone 
in the prime and vigor of life, and in the full career of 
his power and usefulness, to the grave, "even to the 
land of darkness and the shadow of death." Nor may 
any Orphean lyre call hira back. Eest thee here, then, 



68 "there the weary are at rest." 

eloquent and beloved brother ! Not yet lias thy memory 
perished from among the living. Some fair hand has 
even just now planted over thy grave a rose, which is just 
opening its petals to the breath of spring. Thy impress 
is left on many a heart. Nor can it be obliterated with 
the present generation. The mark which thou hast left 
on the moral and religious character of this youthful, this 
rising state, must remain indelible. The stone that 
stands over thy resting-place may crumble and perish, 
and thy name be forgotten, but the impression for good 
which thou hast made on this community will remain 
through all time. 



THESPIRITUAL. 69^ 



THE SPIRITUAL. 

"What is man?" asked the slieplierd of Palestine, as 
he was watching his flocks by night, and looking np to 
the heavens. The same question has been asked, again 
and again, age after age; but who has answered it? Who 
cati answer it? Who can clear away the mystery that 
hangs over man's being and nature? Of the first con- 
sciousness of our own existence we have no memory. By 
which of the senses we first obtained a knowledge of the 
material world we can not now tell. Reason and philoso- 
phy teach us that by touch we first derived our notions 
of materiality. We wave our hand in the air and feel a 
slight sensation, which we call resistance. We wave it 
in the water, and feel a stronger sensation of the same 
kind. We place our foot on the ground, and feel a still 
stronger impression of resistance to our will. We thus 
learn that there is something external to us — something 
that resists us — something beyond the control of our 
will. 

This first fact which we learn is repugnant to our na- 
ture. We abhor resistance. It is painful to the soul. 
The soul exhibits its antipathy to resistance in those 
dawnings of the love of power, which the child exhibits 
among its earliest acts. The struggling of the soul to 
overcome the resistance of external nature, shows that 
the connection between soul and body is unnatural. Con- 
finement suits not mind. It aspires to be free — to roam 
at will through space — from star to star — from sun to 
sun — from world to world. In its pure, essential state, it 
knows nothing of limits — nothing of a resisting medium. 



70 THE SPIRITUAL. 

The sense of toucli furnishes us only the knowledge 
of resistance, with form, hardness, magnitude, and ex- 
tent, as modifications of resistance. Taste and smell ac- 
quaint us with qualities of matter of very little conse- 
quence to us as means of knowledge, except the practical 
knowledge, which enables us to choose proper articles of 
food. 

Another organ of sense is found in the ear. Material 
bodies, when acted on by any force, have the power of 
vibrating. The vibrations are imparted to surrounding 
bodies — solid, liquid, or aerial — and by them communica- 
ted to the ear, which is so organized as to take up and 
repeat the vibrations, and thus furnish the mind the sen- 
sations we call sound. 

Another instrument of the soul is sight. The various 
bodies in nature have the power of reflecting, each for 
itself, different shades of light — some blue, some green, 
some red, and others various colors formed by a combina- 
tion of primary colors. The eye is so constituted as to 
receive these colors, and thus afford the mind the sensa- 
tion we call vision. The only notions, however, we pri- 
marily obtain by sight are color, light, and shade. 

We see, therefore, how small is the sum of human 
knowledge directly derived through the senses — resist- 
ance, taste, odors, sounds, color, light, and shade; that is 
all. From whence, then, derive we the innumerable 
ideas forming our stock of knowledge? 

The senses are merely instruments of mind.' The eye 
does not see. It sees no more than the telescope does. 
It enables the mind to see. The ear hears not. It hears 
no more than the drum hears its own beating, or the organ 
its own music. The drum beats, the drum of the ear 
answers to the beat, and the mind hears. The organ 
sounds, the organ of hearing sounds in unison, and the 
mind hears. Whatever sound is made by sonorous bodies 



T II E S r I R I T U A L . 71 

is repeated by the material organ of sensC; and tlie mind 
is aflfected by the sensation. 

The same power which enables mind to use the eye as 
the instrument of seeing, the ear as the instrument of 
liearing, and the hand as the instrument of feeling, also 
enables the same mind to combine and modify the notions 
of color, sound, and touch, so as to acquire the wonderful 
variety and amount of knowledge we possess. Wonder- 
ful, indeed, is the variety of ideas derived from sight, 
combined with touch, and modified by intellect. From 
my rural seat I see the surface of earth covered with 
vegetation. The green grass is springing in a thousand 
spires at my feet. At my elbow a youthful and vigorous 
pine is throwing its tassels to the summer breeze. At 
my side is blooming a rose on its native stock. Just be- 
fore me is a cluster of lilies, white and pure as virgin 
innocence. Behind me, leaning gently over my head, 
and by its dense foliage protecting me effectually from 
the burning heat of the sun, is an old beech, and close 
by it a tall maple. A thousand varying lights and shades 
are beaming before me. I recognize within the sphere 
of vision innumerable objects of God's creation — the 
cedar, the fir, the spruce, the birch, and the tamarack, 
from my own native north ; the orange, the lemon, and 
the cactus, from the sunny south; and the pink, the vio- 
let, the locust, the oak, the elm, the pear, the peach, the 
plum, the apple, and the grape of this fair land. Along 
the valley' is leaping the brook. On the ridge beyond 
appears the tender blade of green corn. On the north 
appears the village with its spires, and on the south a 
rural landscape, with flocks and herds feeding on the hill- 
sides. Can it be that all these variant ideas are derived 
merely from color, light, and shade? Even so; noth- 
ing but color, light, and shade. All else is the work 
of mind — of mind which can thus, from a few simple 



72 THESPIRITUAL. 

elements, create so vast an amount of knowledge. Did 
■we, from the fact that the elements of all our knowledge 
in the present state of existence are derived through 
the senses, restrict our belief within the range of sensu- 
ous existence, we should reason contrary to experience 
and philosophy. And few are found to reason thus. 
Few there are who believe in the existence of no beings 
beyond the cognizance of the human senses. Is there, 
indeed, one solitary human creature, of common intelli- 
gence, on the surface of this earth, who believes in no 
personal existences except those of flesh and blood? The 
bird in its cage, though he may never have had a mate, 
nor tried the free air with his pinions, seems yet con- 
scious that there is a world about him, and other beings 
related to him; so the imprisoned spirit of man, looking 
out from its dark abode only through the grated windows 
of the senses, has, deep in its inmost recesses, a con- 
sciousness of some mysterious connection with congenial 
existences — spirits of the air, of the earth, or of the 
deep. 

The notion of some connection between us and a spir- 
itual world and spiritual beings, is not with us so much a 
matter of belief as a sentiment — an instinct. It seems 
born in us. It grows with our growth, and strengthens 
with our strength. He that believes nothing — the utter 
skeptic — if such a one there be, feels this sentiment in 
its full force and influence. With our ideas of spiritual 
beings is usually associated superiority. This led, in 
ancient times, to acts of devotion and propitiation. The 
polished Greeks and warlike Romans peopled their forests 
and their fields, their hills and their valleys, their rivers 
and their seas, with spiritual beings, whom they invoked 
and worshiped. They worshiped Jupiter; but, with them, 
Jupiter personified the air, and was a substitute for that 
great spiritual Being who presides over the seasons, the 



THESriRITUAL. 73 

atmospliere, and the ■R-eather. Tliey worshiped Venus; 
but Venus, with them, was the ideal of beauty, whose 
forms they saw every-where in nature — on the earth, in 
the sky, in human action, and in human face. They 
were led to believe in some ideal being of spiritual na- 
ture, whose care and skill arranged the beautiful, and 
whom they worshiped under the human female form. 
The Egyptians worshiped the Nile; yet no intelligent 
Egyptian ever believed the Nile conscious; but he felt 
that there was some unseen agent — some spiritual Being 
presiding over the river, and whose providence superin- 
tended its overflow and its ebb. They worshiped the 
ram, not that they believed it superior to any other beast, 
but because it was a representative of that great constel- 
lation in the heavens whose annual return brings the 
spring, and over whose revolution presides the great Be- 
ing who governs the universe. 

In all ages men have felt that they have yet some con- 
nection with the spirits of those departed from earth. 
The sibyl of Endor believed she could call back the spirit 
of the prophet. Orpheus attempted to call back from 
the realms of Proserpine, by the tones of his lyre, the 
spirit of Eurydice. jEneas believed he saw the spirit of 
Creusa, who perished in the sacking of the city, and that 
of Palinurus, who was drowned in the waves. 

So deep-rooted in the human constitution is the belief 
in the personal and conscious existence of those who 
were once of us, but are now gone from earth, and of 
their continued connection with us children of earth, 
that it seems to have entered into the religious creed of 
a great portion of the Christian world. What but this 
induces the devotee to kneel to the Virgin and pray to 
the saints? He only feels, as we all do, that there are 
spiritual influences and spiritual beings around him. He 
is taught to believe that the spirits of the good may have 

7 



74 THE SPIRITUAL. 

witli the Divine presence access, wtich is denied hina, 
and that they may serve as mediators between him and 
the great Spirit that rules all things. 

And who of us may not have felt the influence of the 
same all-pervading sentiment? Who has not kneeled over 
the grave of his mother, or his companion, or his child, 
and felt so strong attractions of communion of spirit with 
the loved one sleeping below, as to force audible words 
from his lips? At such a time, and in such a place, 
there are holy thoughts springing up in the soul. Vi- 
sions of glorious scenery appear spread over the broad 
ethereal landscape of mind. Forms of beauty — beauty 
such as earth knows not — pass and repass before us. We 
seem to hear sweet voices from the spirit-land, and the 
gentle whisper of peace and of holy delight from lips 
whose earthly prototypes have long since been pallid and 
cold. Tell me not, ye groveling, miserly, sensuous mor- 
tals, tell me not there is no communion of soul with 
soul — no commingling of aflfeotion — no intercourse of 
feeling — no reciprocal breathings of spirit between the 
sojourner in materiality and the sainted spirit who has 
put oflF this mortal vail, and assumed the white robe of 
spiritual fabric. There is but a thin partition between 
this earthly house of our tabernacle and the apartments 
of the spiritual mansion in which dwell the happy ones. 
With ears attuned to spiritual harmony, and from which 
the grosser sounds of earth are shut out, we may, even 
now, hear, as did the apostle when caught up to heaven, 
words of spiritual import, which mortal tongue may not 
utter. There is but a light mist — a shadowy cloud — a 
thin vapor of sensuousness, which conceals from our eyes 
the glorious landscape of the spiritual world. Occasion- 
ally the cloud may be broken, the mist dispersed, and 
there may appear glimpses of a fairer world, and more 
lovely forms than earth ever disclosed, or humanity ex- 



THE SPIRITUAL. 75 

hibited. Elevating is tlio eft'tict and holy the influence 
of these spiritual communings. The enraptured mortal, 
who has had one glimpse of the immortal, would fix hia 
eye forever on the scene. The famishing child of earth, 
who has had one earnest of spiritual communion, would 
hold forever to his parched lips the delicious cup. In- 
sipid after this become the intoxicating draughts of sen- 
suous pleasure. The soul becomes elevated above the 
damps, and vapors, and fogs of sense, and lives in a 
higher, a purer, and more transparent atmosphere. 

The consciousness of the spiritual forms the founda- 
tion of our belief in God. The ancients, in their reli- 
ance on second causes, fell short of the great First Cause. 
Their error lay not in believing in no God, but in too 
many gods. Spiritual influences they could not deny. 
To these agencies they imputed all the operations of the 
physical world. On them, as well on us, the inherent 
sentiment of the spiritual forced the idea of Deity; and 
revelation teaches us, what nature did not teach them, 
that God is one. The older revelation does not so mucb 
reveal the fact that there is a God, as that there is but 
one God. The former man's own reason and nature 
teach him. The latter revelation only teaches. Our be- 
lief in a future existence rests on the same foundation. 
We feel that we are connected with the spiritual world, 
and with the spirits of the departed. We feel, too, that 
we shall live in spirit, though dead in body. We feel 
that death forms no part of the destiny of mind. Death 
seems to us only sound, undisturbed, wakeless sleep. To 
the Christian philosopher, the only difference between 
the sleep of a night and the sleep of death is one of 
time. The sleep of the grave is long. Nor can we wake 
at will, nor be aroused, though wife and children call us 
long and loud. But to both — to the night and to the 
grave — there comes a morning. To the sleep of night 



76 THE SPIRITUAL. 

there comes the sunshine and the day — to the sleep of 
death there comes a brighter sunshine and a day to which 
there comes no night. Our faith in divine revelation 
rests, also, on this spiritual sentiment of our nature. 
This sentiment forms a foundation which, in the well- 
balanced mind, may defy the spiteful dashings of Deism, 
and the deep-rolling surges of Atheism. We hut see, in 
the book of revelation, the reflected image, from a bright 
and polished mirror, of the spiritual creations of our own 
consciousness. Our faith is not so much founded on 
logic and reason, as on sentiment and consciousness. 
The words of Jesus become to us spirit and life. We 
drink them into the soul. The truths of religion become 
a part of our constitution and of our mental furniture. 
Our faith in Christianity thus becomes living and active. 
Its effect is diffused through the whole character. It 
forms the warp which, interwoven with the practical fill- 
ing, constitutes the web of a religious life. 

Our belief in spiritual existence leads us to form ideals 
of whatever we love or admire. We personify truth, and 
love, and goodness, and whatever is beautiful or admira- 
ble. The same law of human nature led to the ideal 
creations of gods, and goddesses, and nymphs, and naiads 
of classic mythology. The genii of the Arabian tales, and 
the fairies of the English nursery, may be traced to the 
same source. And may not the passion for fiction have 
its origin in the same cause? There is generally some 
poetry in fiction, and always fiction in poetry. In its 
ideal creations we find food for our mental appetite more 
congenial than the every-day furnishings of human life. 
The only antidote for fiction is the habitual contemplation 
of the lofty and noble subjects of the Divine attributes 
and a future life. He who, in his hours of philosophic 
meditation and religious devotion, converses with angels 
and spirits, will have little appetite for communion with 



THE SPIRITUAL. 77 

the characters that teem in the brain of the novel-writer. 
He who is accustomed to the lofty thoughts of the moral 
sublimity and the ineffable glories of spirituality, will 
find little pleasure in the puerile plots and flash language 
of players and novelists. His soul becomes elevated 
above all reliance on these futile means of excitement 
and pleasure. He needs not fiction for an antidote to 
ennui; for he is never alone. Angels and spirits are his 
companions, and holy thoughts form to him a delightful 
substitute for the sensuous imaginings of the groveling 
heart. 

It is evident that while the senses are aids to the mind 
in acquiring knowledge in this corporeal state, they, in 
their present imperfect condition, would be obstructions 
in the way of pure, unembodied spirits. The body itself 
will, however, become, in a future life, spiritual, and all 
its senses spiritual. The grossness of materiality will be 
all worked out of the system. Dullness of hearing and 
imperfection of seeing will trouble us no more. The 
senses we now have we shall possess, in our spiritual and 
immortal state, in greater perfection than ever fell to the 
lot of humanity. We shall taste of the ftuit of the tree 
of life, and of the water that floweth forth from the 
throne. We shall certainly hear — for there is music in 
heaven — music sweeter than the tones combined in har- 
mony of the lyre of Apollo, the lute of Orpheus, and the 
harp of the winds. There is the music of sweet voices — 
voices, alas ! no more heard amidst the rough sounds of 
earth — voices of a great multitude, which no man can 
number, all tuned in harmony, with an accompaniment 
of the harps of heaven, singing a new song — the song of 
redemption and salvation. Do our mortal ears ever catch 
the distant echoes of that heavenly music? The shep- 
herds of Palestine heard the song of the angels when 
the Savior was born. And if our hearts be pure, and our 

7* 



78 THE SPIRITUAL. 

tliouglits turned toward heaven, we may seem to hear the 
voices of the loved ones of the soul, gone from earth, 
mingled with those heavenly strains. Then, let the cor- 
poreal senses perish; let the rose bloom and shed its 
odors in vain over the senseless nostril; let the hand be 
palsied in death, and folded for the last time over the 
sleeping bosom; let the ear be untuned to sounds, nor 
vibrate at the voice of the birds, nor of music, nor of 
love; let the eye be closed — let the sleep of death come 
over it — let the sod cover it, nor the sunlight of earth 
ever reach it : the soul has other ears and other eyes, far 
moro perfect than these material ones, and with them it 
will hear heavenly harmonies, and see heavenly prospects. 
Tell me not that there is no future life for the soul. 
Tell me not that this earth is the boundary of mind. 
Tell me not that beauty fades — that memory fails — that 
ideas are erased — that thought is evanescent — that knowl- 
edge is lost. I feel — I laioio it is not so. Should you 
present your mathematical diagrams, and prove, with a 
rigidity that Euclid, nor Newton, nor La Place ever at- 
tained, that man has no connection with a spiritual 
world — no future life — no immortal existence, I should 
not believe you. I should know there must be some fal- 
lacy in your reasoning; for I should feel that your con- 
clusion was inconsistent with my own consciousness. Let, 
therefore, the sensuous wallow on in the mire. Let the 
earthy grovel in the dust. Let the miserly ransack the 
rubbish. Let the groveling plod along in the by-roads 
and muddy lanes of sense, asking no question but, "What 
shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal 
shall we be clothed?" But, thou child of immortality, 
ethereal crea.ture of spirituality, heir of heavenly inherit- 
ance, leave the beggarly elements of earth, and elevate 
your thoughts, your alFections to that sjiiritual world, with 
which you are now connected by those surpassingly-con- 



THESPIRITUAL. 79 

stituted organs of interior life — those perfect instruments 
of the intellect and of the soul — for which mortals have 
yet found no name. And when your corporeal senses 
have done their work and perished with the body, your 
spiritual senses will acquire an acuteness, and exhibit a 
perfection, which will leave nothing to be desired as a 
means of knowledge and of happiness through eternity. 



80 MUTATIONS OP HUMANITY. 



MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 

The elements of change enter deeply into the constitu- 
tion of all human things. Nature herself, though, to our 
view, her laws remain invariable, exhibits one continuous 
series of changes. Nothing earthly continueth in one 
stay. The plant that springs from the earth, passes 
through rapid gradations, till it comes to maturity, and 
then it declines and perishes. Another rises in its place, 
flourishes for awhile, and, in its turn, gives way for its suc- 
cessor. Every animal, from the microscopic insect to the 
lord of creation, exists in a state of perpetual transition. 
The earth herself escapes not the fate of all her children. 
The beautiful scenery of nature, whose brilliant colors 
are stamped on all the impressions of childhood, and 
woven with all the dreams of maturer years, might, in 
the lapse of centuries, become strange to us. 

Nothing, however, is more subject to change than the 
works and the institutions of man. Should the wise 
king of Israel be permitted to revisit the earth, he would 
look in vain for the temple of Jehovah, or the city in 
which it stood. Memnon would not recognize, in the 
broken columns on the banks of the Nile, his hundred- 
gated Thebes ; nor would Zenobia find among the palm- 
trees her Palmyra. The Roman of the Augustan age 
would find little or nothing in the modern city to remind 
him of the Rome of the Cassars. 

Nor are the social and political institutions of man less 
instable than his works of art. The laws of Lycurgus 
and of Solon exist only as history. The institutions by 
which Lacedemon, and Athens, and Rome rose to great- 



MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 81 

ncss, and maintained, for ages, the chief place amono- 
nations, have long since passed away. The institutions 
of thft middle ages exist no longer. Forms of govern- 
ment, modes of living, and social habits have all changed, 
and all keep incessantly changing still. 

Changes in the institutions of man are connected with 
the progress of humanity, and, indeed, are essential to 
it. Conservatism is ever hostile to improvement. The 
mutable constitution, therefore, of human creations is 
made, in the wisdom of Providence, subservient to human 
progress. There are, also, involved in the mutations of 
humanity, other principles, which will appear as we trace 
the progress of society. 

In the interior of Africa, among the mountains of the 
moon, at the sources of the Nile, dwelt, in early times, 
the people called by the Greeks the Ethiopians. Little 
is known of the extent of their country, of the number 
of the people, of the form of government, or of their 
social institutions. The shadows of forty centuries have 
gathered around them. But that there was the cradle of 
civilization and of art, and that the immediate descend- 
ants of the Ethiopians arrived, in some of the arts, at a 
degree of perfection which modern nations have not 
equaled, are facts attested by monuments as enduring as 
the granite hills. The story of their greatness was yet 
fresh in the time of Homer, who says that Jupiter, out 
of respect to their attainments, annually made them a 
visit, with all his train, for twelve days. 

From Ethiopia colonies emigrated to the plains of 
Chaldea, and to the valley of the Nile. The most im- 
portant member of the family was Egypt. It was the 
glory of kingdoms. To her the polished nations of mod- 
ern Europe owe the origin of art and literature. While 
the nations of the Caucasian race, now so distinguished 
in the world, were scarcely yet in the rudiments of being, 



82 MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 

the people on the banks of the Nile were erecting edi- 
fices, which modern art can hardly equal, and writing on 
them a language which modern science can hardly inter- 
pret. 

The Labyrinth is declared by Herodotus, the earliest 
of the Greek historians, to be the greatest triumph of 
human art, far exceeding all the works of G-reece. The 
pyramids, those stupendous masses of gigantic blocks of 
granite, have withstood the ravages of unknown centu- 
ries. Scattered all along the Nile, over the plains of 
Memphis, and of Dendera, and of Thebes, are remains 
of works of art which no modern nation may attempt to 
rival. The catacombs are populous with the dead of 
thirty centuries, preserved in substance and in form by 
means unknown to modern science. The literature of 
this wonderful people is engraven and sculptured in 
characters inimitable by the moderns, on the pyramids, 
and obelisks, and ruined temples. 

Brilliant was the career of this remarkable race. For 
a thousand years or more its star was high in the ascend- 
ant. It had, in the order of Providence, its mission to 
fulfill, and then its place was supplied by another. It 
accomplished its work, and then it went to its reward. 
It acted its part in the drama of humanity, and then dis- 
appeared forever from the stage. Its part was a showy 
one. Its work was one of physical cunning and artistic 
excellence. Its mission was one of concentrated human 
efi'ort under the direction of absolute monarchy. The 
cities, pyramids, and temples of the Nile, were the result 
of physical efi'ort directed by one mind, absolute in au 
thority over the millions. 

" Those ages have no memory, but they left 
A record in the desert ; columns strowu 
On the waste sands ; and statues, fallen and cleft, 
Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 
Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone 



MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 83 

Were hewn into a city; streets that spread 

In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 

Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 

The long and perilous waj's, the cities of the dead! 
And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 

They perished, but the eternal tombs remain; 
And the black precipice, abrupt and wild. 

Pierced by long toil, and hollowed to a fane ; 

Huge piers and frowning arches forms of gods sustain, 
The everlasting arches dark and wide. 

Like the night heaven, when the clouds are black with rain; 
But idly skill was tasked, and the strength was plied — 
All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride." 

From Egypt we pass to Greece. The Grecian repub- 
lics once formed a brilliant constellation in the world 
of science and of art. Like the lost pleiad their place 
is vacant; but the light which they emitted has not yet 
faded away from our sight. 

The mission of the Greeks was one of literature and 
of taste. They excelled in poetry and the fine arts. 
Homer yet holds the first rank among epic poets. 
Neither Shakspeare nor any other modern author ha3 
produced a tragedy more powerful to excite intense in- 
terest in the mind, or to break up the deep fountains 
of human feeling, than the Edipus of Sophocles, or the 
Medea of Euripides, or the Prometheus of Eschylus. 
Herodotus and Thucydides are yet models for the his- 
torian. No age has ever produced finer specimens of 
biography and memoirs than the sketches of Socrates 
by Plato and Xenophon. Demosthenes yet holds his 
place as prince of orators. The geometry of Euclid yet 
forms the text-book in the highest seminaries of Europe. 

In the fine arts, those which distinguished a polished 
people, the Greeks excelled the moderns. The various 
styles of architecture are yet known by Grecian names. 
In statuary and painting they reached a point of emi- 
nence, unattainable by the most highly gifted of later 
times. 



84 MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 

The Greeks were not inattentive to the diffusion of 
knowledge. In the earlier days of their career, histories 
and poetry were rehearsed by the author in the theaters 
and other public places. In this way Herodotus published 
his incomparable histories, and Homer his immortal 
poems. 

The mission of G-reece was a mission of taste and of 
poetry. Glorious was their career, but it soon closed. 
Brilliant shone their sun, but it has long since gone down, 
and darkness has gathered over the whole land. The 
same blue waters, the same fairy isles, the same grand 
hills, the same fertile vales, and the same meandering 
streams are there, as when these scenes kindled up the 
light of genius in the poet, and people are there, too; 
but, alas, how changed! 

" He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
Before decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, 
And marked the sweet angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there, 
And but for that sad shrouded eye. 
That looks not, wins not, weeps now. 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Some moments, ahl one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power, 
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed. 
The first, last look by death revealed. 
Such is the aspect of this shore : 
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." 

To the Grecian succeeded the Roman. The science 
and the knowledge, but not the taste and the poetry of 
the Greeks, passed to the Romans. The mission of the 
Romans was to conquer the world and themselves. 

The conquest of the world was effected by the indom- 
itable energies of her generals and her soldiers. The 
hand of Providence was in it, for thereby was the world 
prepared for the advent of the Savior. The fierce barba- 



MUTATIONS OP HUMANITY. 85 

rian was subdued, the restless Parthian quieted, and the 
fickle African subjected to law. The world was at peace. 
The gates of the war temple, turning on their unused and 
rusty hinges, were closed. 

But the conquest of themselves was a higher achieve- 
ment of Roman virtue, than the conquest of the world. 
And self-conquest was the great and leading idea of the 
Roman age. The Roman times were times of sternness 
of moral character — of determined purpose — of unrelax- 
ing energy — of unyielding virtue — of devotion and self- 
sacrifice to the public interests. The glory of the age 
was the subjugation of the propensities, the passions, 
and even the affections of nature. 

But this form of humanity, though its chief ingi'edient 
might be iron, decomposed and crumbled away, like its 
more perishable predecessors. It answered the purpose 
for which Providence designed it, and then ceased to be. 
From the everlasting forests and the frozen hills of the 
north there poured down on the sunny fields of Italy 
countless multitudes of strange men, before whose frosty 
fingers the arts withered, and at whose rude approach 
literature and taste retired. 

Strange were the mutations of humanity that followed 
during the period of at least one thousand years. It ia 
difiicult to determine the peculiar mission of the middle 
ages. It was the winter of humanity — the season neces- 
sary, in human as well as vegetable life, for gathering up 
the energies and preparing and maturing the materials 
for a more vigorous growth. And long as was that win- 
ter, it at last wore away, and spring returned. And how 
glorious was that spring ! New life was infused into 
every department of human interest, and man, prostrate 
for ages, appeared again walking erect in the image of 
his Maker. 

Time would fail us to notice the characteristic, tho 
8 



86 MUTATIONS OF HUMANITY. 

leading idea, or, to use tlie word we have adopted in this 
article, the mission of the various communities of modern 
times. There is, however, one characteristic strongly 
marking the present age. The principle is more fully 
developed in our own, than in any other country. It is 
independence of thought and freedom of action. The Pil- 
grims who first settled North America were men who sac- 
rificed every thing for 

" Freedom to worship God." 

Toleration they might have had in their own country; 
but with this they were not satisfied. They demanded 
freedom and independence. To secure it they left their 
home, their dear native land, and sought a new home on 
the bleak and barren coast of the north Atlantic. The 
principle of independence, though beginning in religious 
interests, ended not here. It soon naturally extended to 
politics. The declaration of American Independence 
was the legitimate result of the principles the Pilgrims 
had adopted. 

Perpetuity of national existence is not to be expected 
in the present condition of humanity. Each nation, as 
well as each individual, has its work to do, and when it 
has done that work, it gives place to its successor. We, 
too, must depart in our turn, when our work is done. 
Nor may any nation hope for a resurrection. Nations 
live but once. When they die, they die forever. 



THE TOLLING BELL. 87 



THE TOLLING BELL. 

There are sweet sounds here, dear reader. Over my 
Lead, on the topmost branch of the beech, sits a mock- 
ing-bird, sweetest of singers, emulously tuning his mel- 
low throat to every variety of song. Just over the brook 
is a robin singing to his mate that is sitting on her nest. 
From amidst the maple boughs chirps the black-bird. 
The plaintive cooing of some lone turtle-dove is heard 
from the dry branch of a leafless poplar. The grass 
seems alive with the shrill notes of the merry cricket. 
I like that same cricket. Its sound is such as I used to 
hear at my native hearthstone. I cheerfully welcome 
whatever sight or sound revives in my heart the memory 
of other days. Welcome the sunshine that used to fall 
on my childhood's playground! Welcome the moon, 
whose silvery light is the very same that gleamed from 
the quiet lake near my native home ! Welcome the 
stars — Orion with his band, Arcturus with his sons, and 
the Pleiades with their sweet influences, and the shining 
galaxy of a thousand gems, that shed their mellow light 
on the flowery path of my youth ! Welcome the spring, 
with its buds of promise, and its genial influences ! Wel- 
come the summer, with its flowers, its inimitable green, 
and its merry voices! Welcome all to my heart; for 
they sometimes, for a brief season, make me feel as I 
once did, before care had wrinkled my brow, or years 
blanched my temples, or sorrow wrung my heart. But 
not the sunshine, nor the moonlight, nor the starry 
evening, nor budding spring, nor flowery summer, nor 
the merry music of nature's thousand voices, brings back 



88 THE TOLLING BELL. 

the glad heart, nor the buoyant hope of childhood. I 
look on the world of nature — it is as beautiful as ever; 
but there are those who once enjoyed its beauties with 
me, now gone forever from earth. I look upon the 
world of men ; but it appears not to me as it once did, 
when every successive view presented the beautiful and 
ever-changing colors of the kaleidoscope. 

But I am wandering away I know not where. I was 
speaking of pleasant sounds. My nerves are suddenly 
startled by a sound whose meaning I know full too well. 
The deep tones of the college bell come booming over 
the fields, and awaken thrilling emotions in my soul. 
The sound is not that which calls me to my daily duties, 
nor that which betokens the hour of prayer, nor that 
which calls the wanderer home to the house of God; nor 
is it that which marks the grave and measured march of 
the funeral procession. But it is the knell of death. 
It tells us of the departure of the amiable and manly 
youth, by whose bedside we have watched for the last 
few days and nights, wavering between hope and despair. 
Not an hour ago I left his bedside. His father was 
standing over him with intense anxiety. His mother 
was bathing his fevered brow, and shedding bitter tears. 
His youthful associates in the pursuit of knowledge were 
around him. I left him for a time, and I came here to 
soothe my agitated feelings; and now that tolling bell 
tells that all is over. 

To-morrow that bell will toll again, as with sad hearts 
we bury the lovely youth by the side of his companions, 
who have gone before him to the place of the dead, 
whence they return no more. Alas, alas, for human life ! 
what is it ? and what is it worth ? Surely it is as the 
grass of the field, or as the morning flower— cut down in 
its beauty and its prime. 



THE MORAL SUBLIME. 89 



THE MORAL SUBLIME. 

There is a passion, excited in the mind of man by 
natural scenery, called by philosopbers the emotion of 
the sublime. The occasions on which the emotion is 
raised are many and various. There is sublimity in our 
magnificent forests and illimitable prairies. There is 
sublimity in the starry heavens, as we look, on a clear 
night, at the innumerable shining lights that stream 
forth from their exhaustless fountains. There is sub- 
limity in the clouded sky, when the red lightning darts 
along its resistless way, and the thunder echoes over the 
hills. There is sublimity in the water, as it pours over 
Niagara's precipice, and plunges in the abyss below. 
There is sublimity in the ocean, as it rolls up its waters, 
wave after wave, and dashes with thundering roar on the 
beach. Yes, there is sublimity in the ocean. It was the 
ocean that first raised in my infant soul the emotion of 
the sublime. I listened to its grand music when the 
morning sun arose dripping from its watery bed, when 
the twilight of evening was waning, and when the deep- 
toned bell of the distant city was striking the hour of 
midnight. The ocean, the boundless, the fathomless, 
the illimitable, when shall I again stand on its rock-ribbed 
shores, and see its wild waves play ! The ocean alone, 
of all whose images are stamped on childhood's tablet, 
remains unchanged. The friends whose faces were then 
familiar, are all gone. The old house has fallen to ruins. 
The elms that grew about it are blasted by lightning, or 
prostrated by the tempest, or cut down by the ax. The 
8* 



90 THE MORAL SUBLIME. 

snorting steam-horse, dashing along with, his iron hoofs, 
has seared away all the sylvan associations of the ever- 
green forest. The ocean alone is there in its sublimity, 
as I first beheld it, unchanged amid surrounding changes, 
an image of the throne of the Eternal, that stands im- 
mutable amidst the wreck of matter and the crush of 
worlds. 

There is sublimity in the mountain, as you look up to 
its lofty summit, peering above the clouds ; or, as you 
stand on its airy hights, and look down its dizzy sides 
into its dark ravines, walled up by precipices a thousand 
feet deep. There is sublimity in the volcano, as you 
stand on the verge of the crater and look down deep into 
the bosom of earth at the boiling sea of melted rock, 
while the deafening roar of nature's artillery might drown 
the battle sounds of Austerlitz, and of Marengo, and of 
Waterloo — while the red flames flash toward the sky, and 
the waves of lava sweep over the plain. 

But not natural scenes alone excite in man the emo- 
tions of the sublime. There is a sublime in morals as 
well as in nature. Acts of daring enterprise, of uncon- 
querable virtue, of magnanimity, of patriotism, of benev- 
olence, and of heroic fortitude, may excite emotions of 
sublimity not less overpowering than those caused by the 
grandest scenes of nature. 

There is not wanting sublimity in the pursuit of knowl- 
edge. The youth, struggling with poverty, with neglect, 
with difficulties and embarrassments, yet urging his way 
upward to the temple of science, presents an object of 
thrilling interest. The triumph of philosophy and sci- 
ence over nature ; the lightning quiet and the thunder 
silent before the master-spirit of Franklin; the same 
power which heaves ruin and desolation from the volca- 
no's crater, rendered, by the genius of Fulton, subservi- 
ent to the interests of man, propelling the steamship 



THE MORAL SUBLIME. 91 

across the ocean, and urging the chariot wheel over 
its iron track, may afford occasions of the moral sub- 
lime. 

Instances of patriotic enterprise, illustrating the moral 
sublime, may be found in the history of every nation. 
But there is in the sacred records, one that, from its pe- 
culiar circumstances, deserves to be classed first among 
acts of moral sublimity. I refer to the patriotic sacrifice 
which Moses made for his people. Moses, the Hebrew, 
was the adopted son of the daughter of Egypt's king. 
He might be heir to unlimited power and exhaustless 
riches. Egypt was then the glory of kingdoms. Her 
kings had conquered the greater part of the known world. 
Her philosophers were skilled in all the arts and all the 
sciences of the day; so that the historians, and the poets, 
and the philosophers of classic Greece went to Egypt to 
enrich themselves with the learning of that renowned 
country. Her temples, her palaces — the world has never 
seen such. Her Thebes poured forth from its hundred 
gates its hundred thousand warriors. Her Memnon's 
statue with strange music saluted the rising sun. Her 
pyramids, which yet remain, though beat upon by the 
winds and rains of forty centuries, were then fresh and" 
fair. The Hebrews were slaves in the land — abject, de- 
graded, miserable slaves. The blight of four hundred 
years of oppression had fallen on their spirit. Their 
father-land was in the possession of strangers. Their 
heritage was poverty — their life unceasing toil — their 
home a dreary, comfortless mud cabin. To Moses was 
given the choice, either to remain the son of the king's 
daughter, and enjoy the power, the riches, and the glory 
of the kingdom, or to suffer affliction with his people — 
to associate with princes, or with slaves — to live in a 
splendid palace, or in a mud hut — to be buried, when 
life should be over, in a pyramid, or on a desolate mount- 



92 THE MORAL SUBLIME. 

ain, where no maa miglit know his sepulcher. He 
chose the latter. He cast away the pleasures, the riches, 
the honors of Egypt's court, and became the leader of 
those who had nothing to give him in return. History 
records no instance of patriotism like this. 

The records of benevolent enterprise may furnish many 
illustrations of the moral sublime. Acts of pure benev- 
olence — acts prompted merely by the love of human 
kind — acts performed at the sacrifice of one's ease, pleas- 
ure, and personal interest, are eminently calculated to 
move the deep fountains of human feeling. Among pure 
philanthropists, those whose lives and fortunes have been 
devoted to ameliorate the lot of the unhappy, stands first 
the name of Howard. He chose for the field of his oper- 
ations that department of human sufi"ering which all oth- 
ers had overlooked. He went to the prison — he entered 
the deep, dark, damp dungeon cell — he listened to the 
prisoner's tale of woe. He administered medicine to the 
sick, and consolation to the broken-hearted. He went 
from city to city, exploring all the prisons of his native 
land, and bringing to light the secret horrors of the 
prison-house. He then visited the continent, and went 
from state to state, and from kingdom to kingdom, not, 
like the warrior, to subdue cities and subvert thrones^ 
nor, like the philosopher, to seek for knowledge, but to 
remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to 
visit the forsaken, and to sound the depths of human 
suffering. ' He has thus invested his very name with a 
halo of glory. 

The class of philanthropists known as reformers fur- 
nish many instances of the moral sublime. The reformer 
has often to stand solitary and alone against the world. 
The stormy waves of popular opinion are beating about 
him. He must not only stand firm against those waves, 
but he must direct their current to another channel. It 



THE MORAL SUBLIJME. 93 

is his to change long-established opinions and customs, 
fortified by prejudice and interest. Men ardently love 
their opinions; they love their interest better. It hence 
becomes a herculean task to change public opinion, when 
the change necessarily interferes with the business pur- 
suits of community. The last century furnishes an ex- 
ample of a single individual, humble and unpretending, 
one of the people, having nothing to entitle him to 
special attention, attempting a measure of reform, and 
succeeding in it, with the entire British empire and all 
the world beside against him. When Wilberforce first 
mentioned to his friends his design to subvert the policy 
of the British government in relation to the x\frican 
slave-trade — a trade which had existed for centuries — a 
trade in which were employed British ships, and British 
sailors, and British capital — a trade whose profits found 
their way, by a thousand channels, to every man, and 
every woman, and every child in the kingdom — he was 
met by one universal burst of opposition. On making a 
motion in Parliament for the appointment of a committee 
to investigate the policy of the trade, he was treated with 
positive rudeness, and utterly refused a hearing. But 
the British Parliament, though its laws govern half the 
world, could not restrain the rising spirit of Wilberforce. 
The British treasury, though it had at its command the 
wealth of the Indies, could not buy oif his conscience 
from its righteous decisions. The British government, 
though on its dominions the sun never sets — though it 
might crush half the kingdoms of Europe at a blow — 
though it might wrest the scepter from the powerful 
grasp of Napoleon, and imprison him in the rocky fort- 
ress of a sea-girt isle, far away in the Atlantic, could 
not subdue the soul of Wilberforce. Onward he went, 
in spite of the world, till he saw the British Parliament, 
the British nation the British empire, submissive at his 



9-i THE MORAL SUBLIME. 

feet. Noble and happy old man ! The greatest empire 
of earth arose to do him homage. He reached the goal 
of human life with his silvered brows covered with lau- 
rels of victory and of triumph. Yet were those laurels 
not dripping with blood, nor wet with the tears of the 
captive. No curse, no blight shall rest on them. They 
shall remain ever green, ever fresh, so long as the 
human heart shall respond to deeds of noble philan- 
thropy. 

Our own times are not wanting for illustrations of the 
moral sublime, in the department of Christian benevo- 
lence. The missionary enterprise has for its object one 
of the grandest conceptions that ever entered the human 
mind — the enlightening, educating, elevating to the dig- 
nity of its nature, the whole human race. Its field is 
the world — the world with all its continents and islands, 
its hills and valleys, its mountains and plains. Its line 
of operation extends from India's coral strand to Oregon's 
boundless forests — from Hudson's frozen bay to Magel- 
lan's misty straits. Its subjects are the men of every 
clime, and every color, and every tongue — the fair Circas- 
sian, the swarthy Indian, and the dark African. Its 
efficient force is a band of heroes, such as the classic 
soil of Greece never produced, and the sunny vales of 
Italy never nourished. Leaving his home, his country, 
his friends, all that the world holds dear, the missionary, 
bearing aloft the standard of the cross, boldly marches 
forward in the face of difficulties, such as neither Hanni- 
bal, nor Caesar, nor Napoleon ever encountered. No clar- 
ion of war, no alarum drum, but the silver-toned trumpet 
of the Gospel, announces his approach. No blood-stained 
battle plains, no ravaged fields, no smoking ruins mark 
his passage. The earth grows green where his foot has 
been, and the horn of plenty pours out her exhaustless 
gifts. No groan of grief, no sigh of sorrow, no wailing 



THE MORAL SUBLIME. 9b 

^vords of woe, no weeping widow, no helpless orphan's 
cry is heard along his path. The blessing of him that 
was ready to perish rests on his name. Humanity rises 
to do him honor, and the voices of earth and heaven unite 
in saying, " Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the 
Lord." 

History affords several examples of heroic fortitude, 
which none can contemplate without emotions of sublim- 
ity. But there is a scene often occurring within our own 
observation, unspeakably sublime. I refer to the tri- 
umphant death of the Christian. There is something in 
the idea of death appalling to every human being. The 
very grass beneath your feet instinctively shrinks from 
it. The worm that crawls along your path shudders at 
it. Man, thinking, reasoning, foreseeing man, looks at 
it with horror indescribable. All that he hath will he 
give for his life. This dread of death, so deep, so appall- 
ing, can only be subdued by some extraordinary influ- 
ence. The warrior may meet death with what the world 
calls courage. The culprit may meet it with sullen obsti- 
nacy. The philosopher may meet it with resignation. 
But only the Christian can meet it with triumph. He 
approaches that dark valley of the shadow of death, from 
whose gloomy precincts none ever return. He sees before 
him that black stream, on whose banks there grows no 
living thing, and on whose leaden waters there floats not 
even a wreck of all that has been. Of all his friends, 
not one can go with him through that dark valley — not 
one can cross with him that oblivious tide. That 
he should meet death with resignation would be 
grand — that he meets it with triumph is inconceivably 
sublime. 

Such a scene we witnessed not long since. There was 
among us a man in his maturity — a man whose eye was 
not dimmed by age, nor his natural strength abated 



96 THE MORAL SUBLIME. 

by infirmity. Time's frosty fingers had scarcely touched 
his brow. He had selected him a spot where he hoped 
to spend a long life. He had built him a cottage, and 
surrounded it with beauty. The wife of his youth was 
with him. The children of his heart clustered about his 
hearth. Beloved at home, honored abroad, he was just 
prepared for a long and happy life. In the midst of all, 
death — death that respects none — death that accepts no 
substitute for his victim — death that gives back those 
whom he calls hence not to the weeping eye, nor to the 
broken heart — death knocked at his door, and summoned 
him away to that undiscovered country from whose bourne 
no traveler returns. Short was the time allowed for prep- 
aration. Yet the good man could not leave this beauti- 
ful woild, with all its loved scenes and fond associations, 
without casting one longing, lingering look behind. Ris- 
ing up in his bed, looking out of the open window on the 
earth, smiling in summer beauty, he exclaimed, " My 
native land, farewell I" Casting his eyes on his wife and 
children, and waving his hand, again he exclaimed, with 
indescribable emotion, "3/7/ native land, farewell!" 
Then there seemed to appear before him the ladder 
which old Jacob saw, extending from earth to heaven. 
His intercourse seemed to be with another world. Paeans 
of triumph were sung with his dying voice; shouts of 
" victory ! victory !" seemed to die away on his expiring 
breath. Long will it be before those who beheld that 
scene of triumph can forget it — long will it be before 
those songs of victory will cease to echo on our hearts. 
The Christian may enjoy in his dying hour such a scene 
of triumph as none of earth's chieftains ever enjoyed. 
They were sometimes drawn, through the open gates of 
the city, in a chariot, with the captives taken in war fol- 
lowing behind. But the Christian, in the triumph of the 
last hour, seems to mount that chariot of fire which 



THE MORAL SUBLIME. 97 

appeared to Elijah, the prophet, and to be borne through 
the gates of pearl, and along the golden streets of the 
New Jerusalem, with death a captive, and bound to the 
chariot wheels. 

9 



98 GOING HOME. 



GOING HOME. 

" Mother, let us go home. "Why did we come here ?" 

On an evening of early autumn, in a rural cottage, on 
one of the most retired streets of our pleasant village, a 
fair young girl lay on lier dying bed. She had left, some 
two years before, her home on the Wabash, and had 
come to this place to spend a few years at school. In 
her were associated unusual sweetness of disposition, and 
extraordinary power and refinement of mind, with great 
beauty of person. She seemed one of the highly-gifted 
children of earth, who partake more of the spirituality 
and intellect of angels, than of the materiality and im- 
perfections of mortals. She had pursued her studies 
with extraordinary success, and saw before her the high- 
est honors of the seminary of which she was a member. 
She fell sick of fever, and for many days her friends 
were suflPering the agitating anxieties of fluctuating hope 
and ever-recurring despair. We had gathered around 
her as she lay quietly sinking under the influence of dis- 
ease and slightly affected with delirium. For a moment 
she aroused, opened her eyes, and saw her mother lean- 
ing over her bed. '^ Mother," said she gently, "let us go 
home. Why did we come here ?" She closed her eyes 
again, and quietly fell asleep to wake no more. Her last 
thought seemed of home — the home of her childhood. 
A few weeks before she fell sick, while apparently under 
the influence of some presentiment of her early death, 
she wrote, as a school exercise, the following delightful 
passage : 

" The heart has memories that can not die. They are 



GOING HOME. 99 

memories of home, of early-loved home. Home ! there 
is magic in the very word. The sound sends a thrill to 
the heart, vibrating on every nerve. Home ! how dear 
and cherished are its remembrances ! How hallowed is 
the spot ! There passed sweetly our childhood's rosy 
hours. O, I sympathize with the lone wanderer, who 
has not in all the world a spot he may call home. Sad 
must be his heart when, weary, forsaken, and forlorn, he 
finds no asylum, where the weary rest, where the for- 
saken find comfort, and the forlorn hope. Though sepa- 
rated from my own cottage home, my thoughts often 
wander back to its rural charms. Sometimes I fancy I 
am wandering by the crystal brook that winds by the cot- 
tage door, and gazing on its lucid stream as it goes sing- 
ing and dancing along in the bright sunshine, or sparkles 
in the silver moonbeams. Along the verdant and flow- 
ery brink of that little brook I have passed some of the 
happiest moments of my life. 

"Often, at the sweet hour of evening, when memory's 
sacred spell was on my soul, have I strolled out, while 
the dew-drops were sparkling in the moonlight, and sat 
down on the soft carpet of green, sprinkled with little 
tufts of beautiful wild flowers, and listened to the waters 
as they murmured through the vale. Oft was my heart 
enraptured with the scene, and I thought this was the 
' happy land where care was unknown.' 

" Near by the cottage stands the old school-house, in 
which I first was taught to read. And there, too, about 
that dear cottage home, was my favorite garden walk, ray 
pleasant arbor, my beautiful flowers, the rose-bush that 
twined about my chamber window, ' and every loved spot 
that my infancy knew.' I wonder if my flowers still 
bloom as fair and as sweet, and if the rose-bushes twine 
as lovingly about the window, as when I used to trim 
them. Ah ! lovely flowers ! you may bloom on, but not 



100 GOING HOME. 

for me. Other footsteps will tread my garden walk; 
others will sit in my shady bower. 

"But my cottage home throws a still stronger spell 
over my heart. There, on the brow of a hill, beneath 
the floating branches of a tree, sleeps sweet Ellen, my 
only sister. I weep when I think of Ellen's grave. Who 
will train the rose-bush over the spot ? Who will plant 
the myrtle and the snow-drop, and bedew them with 
tears of afi'ection? Who will kneel at twilight beside 
her grave, and say to her, good-night ?" 

This lovely human angel, more seemingly a native of 
some bright, heavenly sphere than of earth, for some 
months before her death, and when in full health and 
blooming in beauty, appeared conscious that her days 
were few, and that she was standing on the very verge 
of the spirit-land. The following beautiful essay was 
written on her nineteenth birthday : 

" The morning smiles with cheerful beams of rosy hue. 
The pearly dew-drop, in its chariot of cloud, glides away 
to its 'bower in air.' The lark sings sweetly, as he up- 
ward flies to greet the glorious king of day, now ap- 
proaching in sublime grandeur, cheering all nature with 
his refulgent rays. Calmness and serenity sit smiling on 
the beauteous face of Nature. The gentle whispering 
of a lonely, wandering zephyr, as it plays among the 
lovely flowers, or sports in the leafy groves, falls upon 
my listening ear. A romantic charm seems floating on 
the soft gale, leaving a fairy impress on every object. 

' 0, there is joy and happiness 
In every thing I see, 
Which bids my soul rise up and bless 
The God that blesses me.' 

"Again I hail the return of my birthday; and though 
amidst joyful salutations and happy wishes'--that are wont . 
to greet me — though surrounded by Nature arrayed in I 



GOING HOME. 101 

her loveliest garb, yet there is a pensive sadness pervades 
my would-be gay and happy heart. In vain do I wear a 
cheerful smile and an air of careless mirth and gayety; 
for naught can exile the melancholy vision that hovers 
about my spirit, or obliterate the deep impression made 
upon my heart by the return of my birthday. Methinks 
I hear a visitor from the land of silence softly whisper, 
* Every birthday finds thee nearer a visionless sleep and 
a couch of clay.' Yes, a few more fleeting birthdays, 
and who will think of Minerva? Who will ever dream 
that such a being appeared on the stage of existence ? 
Who will cherish her name and love her memory? 0, 
none ! Another will take her place, the vacuum occu- 
pied all will be well, and not one will hold her in sweet 
remembrance. 

''Ah! I have planned full many a scheme of earthly 
happiness; but how soon may the hand of the fell de- 
stroyer throw a chill blight on all my budding hopes and 
blooming prospects, crush all my bright anticipations, 
and hasten me to the shades of oblivion, there to slum- 
ber alone and forgotten ! That word * forgotten,' how 
sadly it falls on my pensive heart ! It is a mournful 
theme to dream of the land of oblivion. All shrink 
from its dark and gloomy shades, with a kind of instinct- 
ive reluctance to enter its dismal abodes. How transient 
is our mortal existence ! Flowers are truly our emblems. 
In the morning we gaze on the sweet rose-bud, with its 
petals folded in tender infancy — the emblem of pure and 
innocent childhood; at noon it bursts forth, in exquisite 
beauty and loveliness, ' the queen of flowers,' displaying 
its irresistible charms as it proudly and gracefully bows 
to the gentle breeze and basks in the sunbeams, captiva- 
ting its unnumbered admirei's — the emblem of the most 
interesting period of life — our blooming, gay, and happy 
youth. But mark the change of the scene. For an 

9* 



102 ' GOING HOME. 

hour we see it the pride and admiration of all, a perfect 
flower; but soon the destroyer conies; it begins to droop; 
the rude blast is too much for its delicate and fragile 
form ; its richly-tinted petals wither, and when evening 
throws her sable mantle around us, the work of destruc- 
tion is complete, and naught remains to tell its mournful 
fate. It dies, the emblem of our transient being. And 
think ye the flowers that bloomed by its side, the com- 
panions of its youth, wept long for the untimely fall of 
their lovely sister? No! they breathed, ^Our sister is 
no more ;' the bud that grew by her side, half entombed 
in her robe, sprung up in her place, and she was from 
memory forever erased. Such is her fate ; her knell un- 
rung; her requiem unsung ; her epitaph unwritten ; and 
such shall be mine. Yes! I shall sink like that flower. 
Perhaps a few more scenes of youthful pleasure, inter- 
spersed with those of pain, a few more sips at the cup 
of happiness, mingled with drops of sorrow, and the cur- 
tain will fall. Perhaps a few cherished and devoted 
friends may mark my decline, and breathe a sigh of sym- 
pathy. A tear of sorrow and regret may tremble on the 
cheek of some fond and loved associate, as she gazes on 
me for the last time; a soft whisper of, 'Peace to the 
lone and silent couch of her who sleeps forever!' may 
pass round my humble tomb; they turn away, the occur- 
rence assumes the mystic form of a dream, and vanishes. 
Yet why am I sad? Why thus dejected? Is it not 
sweet to pass from earth so quietly ; and with such calm- 
ness and serenity to leave the afflictions, cares, disap- 
pointments, and thorny paths of this mundane sphere? 
* Yes, unhonored and unknown let me live, unwept and 
unlamented let me die.' It is a beautiful thought, that, 
when I sleep that last, long, dreamless sleep, they will 
place my lowly couch in some sequestered grove, 'far 
from the world's gay stroll,' by the side of some gentle, 



GOING HOME. 103 

murmuring brook, beneath the green-decked bows of a 
towering forest-tree, that may wave in silent grandeur 
over my peaceful home. No deep-toned knell shall wake 
the forest birds. No massive block of marble shall tell 
who slumbers there. The soft, plaintive notes of sweet 
Philomel shall be my dirge, while the waters of the crys- 
tal brook shall chant for me a requiem. I would that the 
gentle hand of one, whom once I loved, should plant the 
myrtle, snow-drop, and teach the woodbine and rose-bush 
to twine above my grave. I would that none but kindred 
spirits should ever wander there, and, as a token of their 
remembrance, 'bring flowers to the place where my dust 
is laid.' 0, how sweet is the contemplation of that 
tranquil, beautiful sleep, when the soul is inspired by the 
hope of a blissful immortality in the bright mansions of 
Elysium I" 

Whence come these presentiments of approaching dis- 
solution ? Does some sister spirit, 

" From the land which no mortal may know," 

whisper to the inner ear of the soul " of things which 
must shortly come to pass ?" Or is it true, as the an- 
cient philosopher taught, that the soul on earth is an 
exile, banished for a time from its native home, yet con- 
scious of its inheritance of immortality, and pining for 
its rest in heaven ? Is there associated with the rec- 
ollection of our early home, our home of childhood and 
innocence, inspired suggestions, and spiritual connections 
of a better home in the paradise of God? 

Life is indeed to the good but a pilgrimage — the 
journey of a day. Our earthly homes are but temporary 
bowers, in which we may rest from the fatigues of our 
journey, and gather strength to go on our way. The 
exile of earth will soon end, and we shall go home. The 
mansions of permanent rest are fitting up, and the loved 



104 GOING HOME. 

ones who have already arrived are waiting our coming. 
We are on our rapid way to join the inmates of that 
heavenly home. And yet with strange inconsistency we 
are lamenting their early removal. We are yet, though 
years have passed since she went home, weeping over 
the departure of the talented, amiable, and beautiful 
Minerva : 

" Yes, there still are bending o'er her 

Eyes that weep ; 
Forms that to the cold grave bore her 

Vigils keep. 
When the summer moon is shining 

Soft and fair, 
Friends she loved in tears are twining 

Chaplets there. 
Eest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 

Throned above ; 
Souls like thine with God inherit 

Life and love." 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 105 



THE POEEST SANCTUARY 

In a charming- grove, on a beautiful till, overlooking a 
lovely landscape of valley, plain, lake, and river, the peo- 
ple of the Most High were met for prayer and praise. 
It was an evening of early autumn. The people, quietly 
seated on the rude benches, with eye intent, and listening 
ear, were hanging enraptured on the lips of the man of 
God, whose eloquent tones fell like music on the heart. 
He was one of the pioneers of the Church — a tall, old 
man, of form erect, of noble bearing, and of strictly-ex- 
pressive countenance. His head was gray with years and 
with toil. Long years ago, he, a mere stripling from the 
Green Mountain land, had been sent on a mission of sal- 
vation to the people scattered over these hills and valleys. 
He had returned to his mountain home, and labored for 
many years in his Master's work. Now he had come 
back to the scene of his early labors; and with a voice 
even more musical than in youth, and with an eloquence 
that had lost none of its power, he was speaking the 
words of truth to a vast multitude of deeply-devout wor- 
shipers. There were, in that forest congregation, old 
men, who, in their youth, had, under the persuasive 
power of that same eloquent voice, yielded themselves up 
to holy influences and a life of piety. To hear that 
voice again seemed to them like the return of youth, 
bringing back to their hearts the joyous emotions of 
other days. By their side were their children, and their 
children's children. The man of God spoke of Jesus, 
and of the cross, and of redemption. He depicted the 



106 THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 

scenes of the resurrection, of the judgment, and of eter- 
nity. He closed with an appeal to the sinner, of such 
power and eloquence, that the hardest heart seemed 
melted — the most stubborn will subdued. He closed his 
sermon, came down from the rustic desk, proceeded to a 
large, open space, within the inclosure of tents, and, with 
a voice sweet as the harp of Ariel, sang the following 
words : 

" Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, 
Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel ; 
Here bring your wounded hearts — here tell your anguish; 
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven can not heal. 

Joy of the comfortless, light of the straying, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure. 

Here speaks the comforter, in mercy saying, 
Eai-th hath no sorrow that heaven can not cure." 

When he had concluded, there were gathered about 
him in a large circle hundreds of worshipers. Among 
them was a multitude of penitents. With gentle words 
and soothing tones he invited the mourner for sin to 
come and kneel at the rude altar near him for confession 
and prayer. A multitude rushed to the devoted spot. 
They came — the mature man, the comely matron, the 
sprightly youth, the fair maiden, and the child. They 
dropped on their knees before the good old man, and he 
continued telling them of the love of Christ. Then the 
multitude all kneeled on the ground, and the good man 
offered up the earnest prayer of faith. He then arose 
and sang, a hundred voices joining — 

" Arise, my soul, arise, 

Shake off thy guilty fears; 
The bleeding sacrifice 

In my behalf appears ; 
Before the throne my surety stands; 
My name is written on his hands." 

Struck with the sublimity of the scene, I stood at a short 
distance; on a little knoll, looking on the place and the 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 107 

people. The grove was composed of tall maples, and 
grand old oaks, and gigantic hemlocks, with here and 
there a tall, straight pine. Lamps were sut^pendcd froiu 
the branches of the trees, lighting up the whole scene. 
The trunks of the trees seemed like variegated and mass- 
ive pillars upholding a canopy whose gorgeous colorings, 
touched by the brush of autumnal frost, no painter's pen- 
cil might imitate. The mingled voices of the immense 
multitude, all tuned in native melody, rose up amid the 
forest leaves, like the deep tones of the pealing organ, 
chanting in some old cathedral the Te Deum in strains 
of harmony. I looked on the people, and I seemed to 
see a vision of angels. Among the happy converts was a 
fair young girl, who stood with her eyes half closed, yet 
raised toward heaven, and gently clapping her hands in 
ecstasy. She spoke not a word, but no angel face to hu- 
man eye ever seemed more heavenly. 

An angel hand might paint that scene, an angel tongue 
might tell it, an angel pen describe it; but no human 
effort can avail to express either the depth of the emo- 
tion, the beauty of the sight, or the harmony of the 
sounds, that went up to heaven from that forest sanc- 
tuary. 

That spot seemed holy ground. No Gothic temple 
could seem half so grand as that primeval house not 
made with human hands. No costly chandelier, with 
diamond reflectors, would give so pure a light as those 
rustic lamps suspended from the green branches, and their 
rays reflected from the autumn-colored leaves. 

It is a glorious place, that forest sanctuary, the place 
where the Most High delights to meet his people. Not 
the temple of Jerusalem in its highest glory was more 
dear to the dweller in Palestine than is the memory to 
me of the forest temple, on whose rustic altar I have 
seen the dearest friends of earth bring their gift — the 



108 THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 

gift of a broken heart, and a contrite spirit — and offer it 
up to Him, to whom such a sacrifice is more acceptable 
than earth's richest treasures. 



THE FALLING LEAVES, 109 



THE FALLING LEAVES. 

It is the time of the falling leaf. The frost has come 
with its biting nip, and the forest leaves have felt its 
power. They are falling thick and fast from the beech 
and the maple, that have, during the long summer, fur- 
nished me so grateful a shade, beneath which I have 
spent many an hour. Here they drop, one by one, in the 
quiet and stillness of this bright and beautiful morning. 
falling leaves, sad seems your fate ! One summer only 
have you enjoyed, and now you fall to rise no more. But 
such is the doom of all like you, children of earth. 
Even now as you drop, one by one, you rest on the grave 
of youth and beauty. Already, and while I have been 
standing here, you have formed a covering over the bed 
where sleeps the long and dreamless sleep of the grave 
my own bright and beautiful one, who, like you, passed 
away. But yours is still a timely fate. You have filled 
your destiny. But she, alas, fell before the frost of win- 
ter or of age had come! She perished in the spring- 
time of the year and of life. On a bright May morning, 
while the soft breath of spring and the genial sunshine 
were bringing out the flowers in all their budding beau- 
ties, she suddenly passed away. And we laid her beneath 
the overhanging beech. Here let her rest. falling 
leaves, gather yourselves about her bed, and protect it 
from the beating rain, and the rude blast of the wintery 
wind, and the drifting snows ! 

Leaves of autumn, you forewarn me of my own fate. 
My own spring-time has past — my summer is gone — gone 
10 



110 THE PALLING LEAVES. 

from my brow, gone from my heart. Gone is the buoy- 
ancy of youth, gone the cheerfulness of the happy days 
of childhood, gone the sunshine of the heart. The 
merry voice that once cheered my soul is hushed forever. 
The sunshiny brow that once reflected joy on my heart 
lies low beneath that bed of leaves. The gentle hand 
that once played with my whitening locks, and smoothed 
the wrinkles from my brow, now lies motionless on the 
breast where once beat the gentlest of human hearts. 

And I, too, am on my rapid way, and soon must reach 
the resting-place of all that is born of earth. I must 
come and lie here by the side of 

" The pretty child I lov'd so well." 

Another will then stand where I now do, and watch your 
graceful descent as you drop on the grave of the child 
and the father. 



THE BURIAL OF BALCH. Ill 



THE BURIAL OF BALCH. 

Again we meet at the sad sound of the tolling bell. 
Again there lies shrouded for the grave, before the sacred 
altar of our quiet village church, one whom we have all 
known, and all loved. On the declivity of the hill, whose 
summit is crowned by the temple of God, a grave by 
friendly hands is made, and there we soon must lay the 
manly form of Balch. Fitting place is it for the long 
rest of the youthful and the good. The quiet lake sleep- 
ing in rural beauty at the base of the hill, seems an em- 
blem of the rest of those whose souls no more are dis- 
turbed by the rippling undulations of emotion, nor the 
deep surges of human passion. It is a spot so retired, 
so still, so quiet, that the genius of repose might choose 
it for her permanent home. To that spot have we, dur- 
ing the last few years, borne many a lovely one — age 
with gray hairs, manhood in its vigor and strength, woman 
in her loveliness, childhood in its beauty, and now we 
bear youth with all its hopes of success and of useful- 
ness. 

Spring, in all its loveliness, had opened on the fields 
and about the lakes that surround this beautiful hill. 
The sky was clear, and the earth was beautiful. But 
death was here. Before this altar lay the inanimate form 
of as beautiful a child as human eye ever saw. "Her 
home was far away. She had come here with her parents 
on a visit. A few Sabbaths she had occupied one of 
those seats in the Sabbath school, the personification of 
sprightliness and of beauty. But suddenly she fell sick. 
A few days only passed, a few nights of feverish agony, 



112 THE BURIAL OP BALCH. 

and, lo, she lay there arrayed for the grave! It was 
sad to see the mother weep over her beautiful one, her 
unreturning first-born. Who, that looked beneath that 
coffin-lid, can forget the loveliness and beauty that slept 
on those cold features ! We bore the little stranger to 
the grave that was made for her amid the shrubbery and 
flowers. Who may tell the sad feelings of anguish with 
which her parents returned to their home ! 

The yellow harvests of autumn were gathered in ; the 
grass had become sear; the forest leaves were tinged 
with their variant hues, and some of them were fallen. 
Before the altar lay, shrouded and coflGined for the grave, 
the wife and the mother — the mother whose children had 
daily received instruction from our lips. Who that ever 
knew her did not love her ? Who ever looked on her 
benignant countenance without being reminded of the 
gentleness, the benevolence, the affection of the female 
character ? But there she lay cut down in her full 
strength. The rose was in its maturity; it was not 
faded, nor blanched by age — but the reaper's scythe had 
ruthlessly struck it, and its life-blood gushed out. Her 
we deposited in that quiet spot, and strewed the earth 
over her. The mother that boi*e her, the sister of her 
heart, the husband that loved her as man seldom loves, 
and the children of her bosom, returned to their desolate 
home. Who can guage the deep fountain of anguish in 
those bereaved hearts? Who will venture to approach 
them with the mockery of words ? 

The winter had passed, the warm breezes from the 
south had melted away the snow, the first flowers of May 
were peeping from under the dry leaf. Placed before 
that altar was a man of mature years, and great physical 
and intellectual strength. He died while yet his eye 



THE BURIAL OF BALCH. 113 

had not become dim, nor his natural force abated. Be- 
fore that cofl&n, which contained all that remained of the 
companion of her youth, sat a woman, broken-hearted, 
the image of sorrow. By her side were her children, on 
whose cheeks were written, in characters of paleness, the 
grief of orphanage. "With measured steps we bore the 
lifeless form to the spot consecrated to the dead. The 
procession stopped — the bier was lowered, the body was 
deposited in the grave. The procession was about to 
return, when one of those orphan children, a beautiful 
little boy, leaped from the carriage in which he was sit- 
ting with his mother, and from which the family had not 
alighted, and rushed, regardless of all around him, to the 
grave, and, standing on its brink, cast a longing, linger- 
ing look at the coffin of his father. The indescribable 
look of that child, as he bent over that grave, went to 
my heart. It brought out, in bold relief, on my soul the 
image of many a loved one over whom the grave has 

closed forever. 
******** 

It was winter. The tones of the bell called us again 
to this house. There was seen in the congregation many 
a hoary head, on which had fallen the snows of four- 
score winters. Before the altar lay one of their number, 
a mother in Israel — one whose years had numbered a 
century — one who had seen the forests cleared away, and 
her children's children grow up and become old by her 
side. Full of years, full of honor, full of grace, and ripe 
for heaven, God had called her home. She seemed like 
a plant, whose seed becoming mature and perfect, mounts 
the air on its wings, and soars away, leaving the stock, 
which has fulfilled the purpose of its existence, to be re- 
solved into its constituent elements. 
******** 

The summer came. Its first roses were plucked, and 
10* 



114 THE BURIAL OF BALCH. 

its first fruits were becoming ripe. Before that altar lay 
an infant — an infant that had seen the snows of but one 
winter, but had never seen an autumn. Its mother gave 
it birth, and fell sick. A few months she nursed it in 
feebleness. The spring painfully wore away. When 
summer came, she left her home to go on a visit to her 
friends in pursuit of health. On her journey she ex- 
pired in her husband's arms, before he could take her 
from her carriage. The bereaved husband went on his 
way with his dead wife to the home of her childhood, 
where he buried her in the church-yard of her native 
village. With his motherless infant he retraced his 
steps toward his desolate home. Arriving thus far on 
his way, the child fell sick and died, and we buried her 
yonder. Happy child ! she knows not the sorrows of 
orphanage. 

Another summer was gone. The mellow autumn, with 
its fallen leaf, had come. The storm of wind and of rain, 
that had been raging for several days, was cleai'ed away, 
and the calm and bright September sun was shining 
cheerful on the bosom of earth. The sky had resumed 
its delicate blue. The winds were all hushed, and a still- 
ness befitting the occasion had come over all things. 
Before that altar lay the charming little Roscoe. Scarce 
had he lived two summers ere he sickened and died. 
Alas, that so much beauty must fade ! His bright eyes 
were dimmed; his cheeks were pale, his lips were mo- 
tionless; but the smile was there — the smile that death 
could not remove — the smile that spoke of heaven. On 
his breast and in his little hands were flowers, such as 
autumn produces. He, a fairer flower than earth is wont 
to produce, had been suddenly nipped, and had untimely 
fallen. Beneath the waving branches of a pine we made 
his grave. As we gathered around his place of rest we 



THE BURIAL OF BALCH. 115 

sung the mournful requiem, composed by the heart- 
stricken father in the hour of bereavement : 

" I walked the fields in early morn, 

And saw a rosebud on a thorn, 

It sparkled in the dew so bright, 

Methought I ne'er saw lovelier sight. 
An hour had sped, and o'er the dewy lawn 
I tiu'ned my steps again — the rose was gone. 

At noon I went to view the flood 

That dashed in toixents from the wood ; 

Down, down it rushed in foamy pride ; 

Two bows there spanned it side by side; 
Another hour — the sky was darkened o'er; 
I saw the sunbeams in the spray no more. 

'Twas eve — ^I turned my wandering eye, 

To trace the meteor through the sky ; 

A radiance beamed from otf the pole, 

That shed a sunshine on the soul : 
A moment gone — I raised again my head 
To view those flashing beams — and all were fled. 

So like the rosebud from the thorn 

That looked so gay in early morn ; 

Or like the rainbows o'er the flood, 

That dashed so furious from the wood ; 

Or nearer like, to mortal eye. 

The changeful meteor of the sky ; 
My cherub child is snatched fi'om me away — 
But 0, sweet thought! to live in endless day, 
Where neither rose, nor bow, nor sparkling beam. 
To angel eyes does half so lovely seeiu !" 

When we had sung this dirge, and commended ourselves 
to God, we with mournful steps and many a longing look 
behind, came from the spot where we left the child ; and 
there he sleeps unmindful of the sports of childhood — 
of the anticipated hopes of the future — and of the love 
and grief of his parents. There he hears not the song 
of the robin that chirps on the bough that hangs over 
him. He sees not the pleasant light of the morning sun 
that calls his cousins to their sports. He smells not the 
wild iiower that grows on his grave. He heeds not tho 



116 THE BURIAL OP BALCH. 

voice of love that utters its mournful tones over him. 
Beautiful child, sleep on! Such as thou my Savior 
blessed "Of such," he said, "is the kingdom of 
heaven." Lonely as appears thy rest, thou art not alone. 
The genius of Christianity sits over thy grave. Invisi- 
ble to mortal eye, she there guards thy dust, waiting for 
the signal of thy Savior's appearance from heaven, when, 
starting from her seat, her renovating voice shalt thou 
hear, ^^ Roscoe, come forth T' At that voice shalt thou 

awaken, never, blessed child, never to die again. 
******** 

And now it is summer again, and again we are here. 
Alas ! alas ! why are we here ? From a neighboring city 
there returns to meet us here on our classic hill, one who 
lately went out from among us, in all the vigor of youth 
and perfection of manhood. He comes to his loved spot, 
his chosen retreat, his adopted home. He comes to his 
friends, to his classic associates, to his old companions, 
to the house of God, where he used to worship, and now 
he is before the very altar where he used to kneel and 
pray. Why speaks he not ? Pupil, friend, brother, 
why liest thou there silent, motionless? Alas! the hand 
of death is on him, nor can he shake it off. The manly 
form lies low. The strong arm lies powerless on the cold 
bosom. The eye that flashed with intelligence, and 
beamed with benignity, is sealed up in darkness. The 
voice of eloquence, under whose tones our hearts used to 
melt, and our eyes overflow, is hushed forever. The heart 
once beating with life, and with sympathy for human suf- 
fering, and full of all kindness, and generosity, and sin- 
cerity of affection, is still, nor can its pulses ever stir 
again. 

Melancholy end this of all his high hopes of a long 
and active life of usefulness. With a mind of unusual 
gifts, a body of unimpaired health, and a character com- 



THE BURIAL OF BALCH. 117 

billing all the elements of success, he had devoted him- 
self to the Church of Christ. He had assumed the 
badge of a missionary of the cross. For this he had ed- 
ucated himself, laboring with his own hands to defray his 
expenses. The field of his future labors had been early 
selected, and his studies directed to the acquisition of 
the language of the people among whom he was to labor. 
He had finished his literary preparation, and was making 
arrangements for his departure. He was expecting before 
this present day should arrive, to have bid his friends 
farewell, and to have been on his way to the land of the 
south, where the La Plata and the Amazon flow over the 
luxuriant plains, and the Andes rise in grand sublimity. 
The farewell words have been spoken, but spoken with a 
faltering voice, and ou a dying bed. He has gone his 
journey, but not the way he had fondly hoped. He has 
gone — not to the land on whose sky rises the cross of the 
south, and on whose horizon float the misty clouds of 
Magellan, but 

" To that undiscovered country, from whose bourne 
No traveler retiu'ns." 

As in the providence of God he was not permitted to lay 
himself to rest as he had hoped, in a foreign missionary 
land, he asked to be brought to this place, that he might 
rest within sound of the bell that had so often called him 
to recitation and to prayer, and in sight of the classic 
dome beneath which so many pleasant hours he had en- 
joyed. And now the grave is waiting to receive him. 
Take him up, friends, and bear him on his bier to his 
resting-place. 

And now you have buried him. The earth has closed 
over him, and the grass will soon grow green over the 
spot. Here sleeps he alone. No one of his blood lies 
here. No mother, no sister may ever come here to weep 



118 THE BURIAL OT BALCH. 

over him, and no kindred may ever be laid to rest by bif 
side. There was one dearer to him than sister, dearei 
than mother — one whom he had chosen for his bride. 
She sleeps, too, but not here. A thousand miles and 
more toward yon setting sun, by stranger hands her grave 
was made, and there she sleeps, without a stone to mark 
the spot, nor can any one tell which, among the name- 
less graves of that prairie cemetery, holds the moldering 
remains of the amiable and accomplished Maria. Would 
that, since it was the will of Heaven she should die, she had 
died with us, that we might have laid her and her be- 
trothed side by side in this rural cemetery. But the 
will of God is otherwise, and so it must be. 

And now farewell, brother, a long, a sad farewell ! We 
leave thee here to rest. Here naught shall disturb thy 
repose. The peaceful lake that laves the borders of this 
resting-place of the quiet dead will never be disturbed by 
the discordant clatter of traflic. The bell that hangs on 
yonder classic hall will be alone heard, as it rings merrily 
for the hour of prayer, or tolls sadly for the dead. Here 
long wilt thou sleep. Thousands of times may yonder 
lofty mountains throw their deep shadows over thy grave. 
A thousand winters shall cover the earth with a white 
winding sheet ; a thousand springs shall revive the flow- 
ers; a thousand summers ripen the fruits of the field; 
and a thousand autumns prostrate the leaf, and yet still 
shalt thou sleep on. We too shall come, one by one, and 
sleep by thy side. Our children in their turn, too, and 
our children's children, shall come and lie down with 
thee. Ages after ages shall glide away, and we shall be 
be forgotten by the children of earth. The storms of 
winter shall level the mound raised over us to the ground. 
Time's "effacing fingers" shall wear our names from. the 
marble and from the hearts of the living; and Oblivion 
shall spread her dark shroud over our memory. Long, 



THE BURIAL OP BALCH. 119 

long will be the night, whose shadows gather over us — 
night, moonless, starless, lightless. Yet when the morn- 
ing comes — for come the morning will — the glorious res- 
urrection morning — thou and we, who may share with 
thee this resting-place, together shall rise to meet the 
Lord our Savior, Jesus Christ, coming in the clouds of 
heaven to gather home his people. 



120 PASSING AWAY. 



PASSING AWAY. 

Accidentally opening a book lying on my table, my 
eye fell on these words, " This, too, shall pass away." 
The motto is said to have been chosen by an eastern sage, 
as a talisman, alike effectual in the days of prosperity 
and the sorrows of adversity. Much of life with us, 
gentle reader, is already passed away, nor can it return 
again. Our earliest recollections, now dim and fading, 
are of the mother who clasped us to her breast, and hung 
sleepless over our helpless infancy — the mother who 
watched our fitful slumbers through many a long night of 
sickness, breathing over us the prayer of faith, and of 
hope, and of love — the mother who taught us to speak, to 
walk, and to pray — the mother whose gentle tones soothed 
our ruffled temper — the mother whose bright eye beamed 
delight when we were good, and filled with tearful sorrow 
when we were bad. That mother has passed away. Her 
voice no longer animates us to youthful exertion. Her 
lip smiles no more. Her eye is closed — closed forever; 
nor will it look again on the light of morn, or evening 
twilight, or the green earth, or on us. The long grass of 
many a year's growth has become matted with many- 
twined roots in the turf that forms her covering in that 
silent bed where she sleeps the long sleep of the grave. 

Our next recollections are of our little brothers and 
fair sisters, with whom we whiled away before the door 
the long summer day. Brother and sister, with hand 
twined in hand, we ran up and down the garden walks, 
or rambled over the fields, picking flowers on the hill- 
side. With tiny hands we dabbled in the brook — with 



PASSING AWAY. 121 

light foot we chased the shadows over the lea — with 
stealthy tread we crept to the butterfly on the rose — with 
ringing laugh we skipped among the lambs. At early 
morn we rose to look out on the summer sky, and to listen 
to the caroling of the lark, the monotone of the robin, 
and the mellifluous music of the thrush. At noon we 
lay reclined in the shade by the brook, admiring the 
springing grass, the wild-wood violet, and peeping leaf 
bud. At night we returned tired of play, and, amidst 
sweet dreams, reposed till morning. The world was all 
bright and sunshiny. The hill, the vale, the wood, the 
brook, all furnished sources of amusement and pleasure. 
Those days are passed away. With them have passed 
the little brother and the fair sister. The little foot 
that tripped lightly with us over the lawn, lies motion- 
less in the grave. The soft hand that was clasped in 
ours, is folded helpless on the breast. The voice that 
sounded so merrily, is hushed and silent forever. Tune- 
less is the harp that emitted so joyous tones, and moldered 
the form that stood in beauty by our side. In the church- 
yard, by the side ©f the mother, sleep the little sister 
and the little brother. 

Though passed are the days, and gone on a returnless 
journey are the associates of childhood, yet faded are 
not the pictures of memory. Every beautiful scene has 
left daguerreotyped on our soul its image, and there will 
it remain forever, fresh and fair, in primeval beauty. To 
it in the darkened chambers of the heart we may often 
turn, and look on it, as on the image of a lost friend; 
nor will the review be profitless. Go on, then, happy 
child. Gather up while you may the glittering gems 
scattered like dew-drops along your pathway. Though to 
others but common pebbles, to you they are pearls. Build 
your castle in the air. Beautiful is it while it stands, 
and when it tumbles, its fragments may be beautiful still. 

11 



122 PASSING AWAY. 

The colors of the soap-bubble are no less beauteous be- 
cause evanescent. The hues of sunset are not less gor- 
geous because followed by gloomy darkness. The meteor 
while it shines is often more brilliant than the fixed star. 
Admire the butterfly while it is spreading its gay wings, 
and before winter comes, when you will see it no more. 
Chase your shadows while there is sunlight to see them; 
for soon darkness will gather over all the horizon. 
If fairies invite you to the enchanted bowers of imagin- 
ary beauty, go along with them. The substances of 
childhood are, it is true, evanescent. But the pictures 
thereof are permanent. They form a gallery in the inner 
chambers of the mind. When the eye grows weary with 
the bleak and barren prospect of age, you may turn to 
the gallery of childhood's pictures, and in the con- 
ceptions which they restore find relief from hideous 
forms. 

Seek not, then, too soon to break the spell which fancy 
throws over childhood. The enchantment will of itself 
give way full soon enough. The dreams of childhood 
are as essential to the moral as sleep to the physical de- 
velopment. Let the child, therefore, by Fancy's pencil, 
delineate pictures to lay up in store for future requisition. 
Let the seed of moral truth be early implanted in his 
young mind. It may long lie imbedded beneath unpro- 
pitious circumstances. No sprout may shoot out, no germ 
appear, and no signs of life be exhibited. The day will 
yet come when, under favorable influences, it will push 
out its bud, open its flower, and mature its fruit. 

If paradise can ever be realized on earth, it is to be 
found in the retired, quiet, beautiful, rural spot, sur- 
rounded by domestic influences. The ties that bind us 
to the home of maturity take hold of the heart. The 
domestic relations open in the heart of man fountains of 
feeling of whose existence he was unconscious. Deep 



PASSING AWAY. 123 

seatod in the inmost recesses of the soul, unobserved by 
the passer-by, hidden even from ourselves, they remain 
sealed up till the domestic key unlocks them. Then they 
gush forth in one unremitting and perennial stream, mak- 
ing green the sear spots of earth. 

Beautiful to the eye of mature life is the scenery of 
home — a cottage embowered in roses and honeysuckle, 
and looking out on green fields and waving forests — a 
garden with winding walks and shady bowers — a stream 
flowing by and losing itself in a valley perpetually green — 
birds singing in the branches of blooming trees, and 
children playing on the grass-plot, and running to meet 
you returning home, peeping with their bright eyes 
through the fence, and clapping their little hands for joy 
that you are come. 

''This, too, shall pass away." Over all this bright 
scene there may fall a shadow deep and dark. Let but 
one of these little voices be hushed in death, and never 
to your ear will sound the music of nature so soft and 
sweet as before. Let but one of those light hearts cease 
to beat, and never again will your own be merry as before. 
Let but those bright eyes be closed, and the coffin's lid, 
and the heaped-up earth, shut out from them the light 
of heaven, and never again to your eye will the sunshine 
of earth be bright as before. There will seem to have 
passed from earth something beautiful which can never 
be restored. 

When once, in the maturity of life, we have known 
sorrow — when once the heart has been frozen by the cold 
sympathy of the selfish world — when once our hopes have 
been blighted by disappointment — when once the spirit 
has been crushed by misfortune — when once the soul has 
been overwhelmed by bereavement, we never shall be 
again what once we were. For the sake of others we 
may smile as before, but when the smile is most cheerful 



124 PASSING AWAY. 

the heart may be most sad. The world, however, may 
know nothing of it; for we shall learn in time that 
"every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger 
meddleth not with its joy." 

In the busy whirl of human life, we are hardly aware 
nf the changes which are constantly passing over us. If, 
after an absence of years, we return to the home of 
childhood, we may become sensible of the transformation 
which we have undergone. I saw a man of mature age 
wending his way along the winding path he had often 
trodden from school, in boyhood's halcyon days, to the 
home of early life. A very happy child had he been — 
buoyant in hope, elastic in mind, cheerful and irrepressi- 
ble in spirit. His eye was not yet dimmed by age, nor 
his physical strength abated by time. He came to the 
play-ground of his childhood. He climbed the hill, from 
which he saw the lovely landscape whose beauties had 
never faded from hts memory. He went to the spring 
gushing out beneath the rock, and drank one long, deep 
draught of the waters, sweeter to him than those of Par- 
nassus, or Helicon, or Arethusa. He followed the brook 
meandering through the vale, and drew, as in youth, the 
wary trout from the deep waters. He sought the ever- 
green bower on the plain, and laid himself down and 
slept beneath the very same cluster of pines whose rust- 
ling leaves had often, by inimitable music, lulled him to 
repose in happier days. Yet all would not do. The 
wanderer's heart was sad. The changes of earth had 
passed over him. The bright and the beautiful had 
faded from his sight. The lovely of earth were sleeping 
wakeless, some in his seagirt native land, and others far 
away toward the setting sun. The gray-haired man arose, 
looked once more on the landscape of childhood, then 
turned away toward his forest home, despairing of ever 
again restoring the sweet fancies of other days. 



PASSING AWAY. 125 

We, too, ourselves, shall pass away. The places thai 
know us will know us no more forever. 

" Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor j-et in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 
Nor yet in the embrace of ocean shall exist 
Thy image." 

The morning shall come to earth, and the sun send forth 
his brightest beams, yet shall not the darkness that has 
gathered around thee be dispelled. Spring shall return, 
and the earth put on her new robe of green, and in place 
of the decaying stock shall come up the fresh flower. 

" But when shall spring visit the moldering urn, 
Or when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?" 

It is often said that time is passing away. It is not, 
however, time, but the mutable and material relations of 
time that are evanescent. Time is a stream ever flowing, 
never resting, but it leads to the great, shoreless, bottom- 
less ocean of eternity. This never passes away — never — • 
never — never. 

The material universe itself shall also pass away. The 
heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll and disappear. 
The earth and all the works therein shall vanish. But 
there shall be in place thereof a new heaven and a new 
earth, of spiritual and eternal fabric, and in which shall 
be gathered all of the good and true to dwell forever. 
11* 



126 SPRING. 



SPRING. 

Spring, with its ethereal mildness, its hudding heauty, 
and its gentle music of bee and of bird, is come again. 
The soft south wind fans the fevered cheek, and gentlj 
rustles among the branches of the old beech-tree. The 
leaves are putting out, like beauteous childhood bursting 
into youth. The grass is green again. The wild flowers 
bedeck the hill-side and sprinkle the sod of the valley. 
The bees are busily humming about the flowers and 
among the green leaves. The birds are chirping and 
hopping from sprig to sprig of the forest-trees. On the 
fence sits the robin, singing her plaintive monotone. 
On the bush the little sparrow chirps with a sweet though 
sad note. Perched on the topmost branch of the maple 
sits the mocking-bird, sweetest of nature's songsters, not 
inferior even to Philomel, pouring from her mellow throat 
sounds of entrancing melody. From the grove comes the 
moan of the turtle-dove, soft and sad. 

Delightful is the return of spring. Happy the eyes 
that look on her in her beauteous drapery ! Happy the 
ears that hear her joyous sounds ! Beautiful is earth, 
reviving is the air, pleasant is the light. 

Amid the gladness of nature my heart reverts to those 
to whom spring returns no more — to those who have been 
among us, once of us, but who now are sleeping in the 
grave, unawakened by the exciting sounds of a spring 
morning; unaroused by the morning bell that calls to 
prayer; unconscious of the soothing influence of the 
balmy breeze returning from the warm south-west; un- 
mindful of the return of bird, and of flower, and of 



SPRING. 127 

morn. In deep, unbroken, undisturbed repose tbey lie, 
nor answer they, tliougb we bow our face to their lowly 
bed, and call them long and loud. They wake not, 
though the sun rise and set in brilliancy over them. 
They slumber on, though the rains fall, the lightnings 
flash, and the thunders roll. The springing plant and 
blooming flower arouse no emotions in them. The leaves 
of autumn fall, and wither on their bosom, but bring to 
them no emotions of sadness. They heed not the com- 
ing of summer, with her gorgeous drapery; nor of au- 
tumn, with her yellow harvests, her falling leaf, and her 
thoughtful melancholy; nor of winter, though its blasts 
blow bleak and furious over them ; nor of spring, though 
it bring joy and gladness to childhood, and to youth, and 
to manhood. To them all seasons and all earth's changes 
are the same. Spring after spring will return, summer 
after summer will come and be gone, autumn after au- 
tumn will clothe the fields in mourning, winter after 
winter will spread her white winding sheet over all the 
beauty and the bloom of earth, year after year will be 
numbered, generation after generation will sweep along, 
age after age will pass away, cycle after cycle will revolve, 
and yet they, the loved, the lost from earth, will sleep on. 
Their forms change. Their images fade from every thing 
but the heart of love. But enshrined, sacred in the 
heart of afi'ection, is the memory of the beauteous and 
loved ones. Nor will we forget them ; but we will love 
them still, till we ourselves follow them 

" To the land which no mortal may know." 



128 THE ABSENT ONE. 



THE ABSENT ONE. 

I HAD stood on the summit of tlie Alleghanies, and 
looked back, with a " longing, lingering look," on the fair 
land I was leaving forever — the land of green hills and 
sequestered vales, of running brooks and placid lakes, 
and cultivated fields. From the summit I had looked 
down on the interminable plains of the west, spread out 
before me in misty beauty, presenting a scene new and 
mysterious. For many a long day had I been borne 
down the Ohio's smooth surface. With slow and tedious 
movement had I been urged up the meandering Wabash, 
till, one fine morning, the lovely prairie, decked in the 
beauty of spring-time, suddenly opened to my view. 
But my course was onward still, and many a muddy mile 
lay between me and my future home. Wearily was the 
way passed, and my place of rest seemed receding as I 
advanced. The country seemed one interminable forest 
of trees, such as put to defiance all my ideas of vegetable 
magnitude. At last, however, I espied, as I was gazing 
through an opening between the trees, the magnificent 
structure of the University, as it stood out against the 
blue sky, with the spires of its cupola gleaming in the 
midday sun. At that moment the bell struck a merry 
peal, and its deep tones fell in musical cadences on my 
very soul. 

The village was at last in safety reached, and with 
gome difficulty a place was found, where I and my loved 
ones might rest. But the village was not like my native 
one on the Atlantic hill. The house was not my neat 
little cottage, embowered with shrubbery. There was no 



THE ABSENT ONE. 129 

garden, nor flowery ground, whore my children might 
play, as they were wont to do in the home we had left. 

Sadly passed the day of my arrival. Weary and sick 
at heart, I retired, but not to rest, for my sleep was fitful 
and dreamy. All night long I was wandering among the 
evergreen bowers of my native home, and calling my 
children to play with me on the green grass plot and 
flowery parterre. At early morn I arose, and rambled 
forth for a survey of the whole village, to see if I could 
find one beautiful spot, one familiar shrub, one favorite- 
flower, one place that had any thing to remind me of 
home. In the course of my rambles I came suddenly 
and unexpectedly on a beautiful garden. It was in a 
retired spot, away from the haunts of business and the 
crowded thoroughfare. It was laid out in good taste, 
and abounded with flowering shrubs and plants. I stood 
astonished and delighted, gazing at the beauties of the 
spot, till I fell into one of those absent-minded reveries, 
which frequently come on me, and which cause those 
who do not know me well, to deem me an odd, unsocial, 
icy-hearted fellow. From this dreamr^^ reverie I was 
aroused by the light step of a lady, who was approaching 
the place where I stood, along one of the garden walks. 
On meeting me she kindly addressed me, stranger as I 
was, with a gracious smile, and gave me a cheerful wel- 
come to her garden and her father's house. To me she 
seemed some fairy angel, the guardian genius of a little 
paradise which she had formed for herself in this se- 
questered place. That garden seemed an oasis in the 
desert; a sunny spot in the midst of surrounding gloom; 
and that lady seemed some bright and beautiful being 
of another clime. 

Years have passed away, and the garden is there yet. 
But the fairy one, whose delicate taste arranged the 
grounds, and whose hand trained the flowers, is there no 



130 THE ABSENT ONE. 

longer. Tlie garden walks know ter light step no more. 
The flowers, forsaken and neglected, mourn for the lovely 
one, whose fair hand planted them. Alas, alas ! she 
heeds them not. Their odors are breathed not for her. 
Their colors shine; but she sees them not. She sleeps. 
She sleeps not here among her friends, nor in the grave- 
yard near, where some congenial hand might plant a rose 
over her grave, but away among strangers, toward the 
mountains of the setting sun. 

Farewell, gentle spirit, farewell. Thou art gone from 
earth, gone forever. Thy home is not among ephemeral 
flowers, but in the paradise of God. Hast thou, sainted 
spirit, yet met, in the evergreen bowers of that fair land, 
my little, beauteous one, who used to run, clapping her 
hands in joy, about the garden-walks of my cottage 
home ? 

" 0, tell lier, companion of the sainted ones, 

How my footsteps are haunting that lowly bed, 
Where we laid her to rest on the flowery ground, 
Our lost and our lovely, the early dead. 

And say, at the flush of the season's prime. 
Or when hearths are light with the evening blaze, 

Hovif we pine for the heart of our summer time, 
And the smile that could gladden our wintery days. 

0, tell her we weep through the lonely years, 
For the dearest and sweetest that love ever won, 

And though hope, like a rainbow, gleams over our tears, 
Yet we weep, we weep, for still we love on." 



THE CHANGES OF EARTH. 131 



THE CHANGES OE EARTH. 

Many and mournful are the changes which time works 
among familiar things. Returning, after years of ab- 
sence, to the home of your childhood, the very l\ice of 
nature seems changed. The field, which seemed a do- 
main worthy a king, has contracted to a few paltry acres. 
The brook, which to childhood's eye seemed a great 
stream, has almost dried up. The house, which seemed 
to you a palace, has dwindled to a small cottage. And 
that house, too, is occupied by strangers, and no familiar 
face meets you at the door; or, what is worse, it is not 
occupied at all, but is left deserted, desolate, and decay- 
ing. You wander through the vacant rooms, and hear 
no sound, except that of the cricket beneath the hearth- 
stone, and see no living thing, except the little mouse 
scudding off at your coming. A deserted house, espe- 
cially if that house has ever been your happy home, is the 
most desolate of all desolate places, and the most gloomy 
of all gloomy objects. I once had a pleasant little cot- 
tage, which had for years been my home, and the home 
of my little children. I had rendei'ed the spot beautiful 
by ornamental and useful culture, and I really loved it 
for its own sake and for its associations. Often, in my 
busy life, after a long and dreary ride, I had reached, 
after dark, the top of the hill, and looked down on the 
lights streaming forth from the window. The lights of 
home — the lights of home falling on the eye of the be- 
nighted, wayworn, and weary traveler — nothing but the 
lights of heaven, that stream forth from the throne of 
God, to cheer up the pathway of the Christian, as he 



132 THE CHANGES OP EARTH. 

passes through the valley of the shadow of death, can 
equal the lights of home. Since my removal from that 
cottage, I have visited it once again. I arrived, as usual, 
at evening on the brow of the hill, and looked down, but 
no lights met my longing eye. I drove up to the house ; 
but all was yet dark and silent. I knew that my wife, 
who used to meet me with her gentle smile, and my chil- 
dren, with their merry laugh, at that cottage door, were 
quietly reposing in sleep in their new home in the west, 
more than a thousand miles away; yet I seemed to ex- 
pect to meet them there, as formerly. I knocked at the 
door, but received no answer. I walked around the 
house. All was silent, gloomy, desolate. 

There are seasons — seasons of sorrow and sadness — 
when the heart instinctively turns to the scene of its 
former associations, however far removed by time or dis- 
tance, and however desolate and forsaken the place may 
be. There are moments when the sensations of the past 
are revived with such distinctness and freshness as to 
appear real. Familiar sounds, long since forgotten, are 
echoed back, and familiar sights, long since faded from 
the eye, reappear to the imagination. It is said by a 
late traveler in the east, that after journeying many a 
day in the Arabian desert, as he was riding along be- 
neath the burning sky, under the scorching sun, and 
over the hot sands, weary, hungry, thirsty, and sick, 
thinking of his home and his mother far away, he sud- 
denly heard the merry peal of the church-bells of his 
native village. He stopped and listened. Those merry 
peals still rang on, as they used to do in his childhood, 
of a Sabbath morning, ending in the sweet and solemn 
toll that calls the wanderer to the house of God. 

After all, it may be well that the heart, though it 
searches incessantly for it, should find nothing on earth 
on which it may surely, and with unfailing confidence, 



THE CHANGES OF EARTH. 133 

rest. God designs not earth foi* our permanent resting- 
place. He has stamped mutability on all tangible things, 
that we might raise our souls to things above While 
change comes over all our relations, God kindly permits 
us to look, even with mortal eye, on some objects which 
seem to change not. The sun, the glorious sun, shines 
on the eye of age as ou that of youth. The moon, the 
silvery moon, looks forth in the heavens, lair as she did 
to the eye of man in Paradise. The stars, the brilliant 
constellations in the heavens, unchanged and unchang- 
ing, maintain, from age to age, the same place in the 
sky. The heavens exhibit the same appearance to us as 
they did to Newton, and to Galileo, and to old Abraham, 
when, on the Chaldean plain, God told him to number 
them, if he could. There are, also, immaterial ideas, or 
conceptions of the soul, which are immutable — ideas of 
the good, the beautiful, and the true, which know no 
change nor decay. 

By these God teaches us that there is, beyond the 
stars, a world which knows no change — that there are 
things which are eternal. Happy, then, is he who sets 
his affections on things above — on things heavenly and 
divine — on goodness, and on truth, and on God. 
12 



134: THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

On all things outward is written, by the pen of Time, 
in characters dec^y, legible, and effaceless, change, mutation, 
perishability. Not even the aggregate forms of nature 
escape the common doom. The compact rock, itself a 
noted example of solidity and permanence — the conceded 
emblem of the eternal One — yields up its form, disinte- 
grates, and crumbles under the influence of heat, moist- 
ure, and frost. The mineral, beautiful in appearance, 
perfect in shape, and curious in structure, becomes impal- 
pable dust under the action of atmospheric or chemical 
influences. The iron, dug from the deep recesses of 
earth, gathers rust on its surface, and yields up its dis- 
tinctive form to the law of change. The earth herself, 
the solid earth on which we tread, through the long cy- 
cles of ages past, has been passing through changes and 
revolutions; nor is the time of permanence yet arrived. 
Her mountains are elevated by volcanoes, and worn down 
by winds and storms; her rivers are, by changes of cur- 
rent and of course, constantly modifying her hills, her 
plains, and her valleys ; her oceans are making land in 
one and destroying it in another quarter of the globe. 
Nor are the solar or the stellar systems of the universe 
less subject to the inevitable law of mutation. The 
bosom of the moon is heaved, and her face torn by vol- 
canoes. The sun is marked by spots betokening, from 
their varying appearance, incessant action and change. 
The stars, though removed too far for accurate observa- 
tion, exhibit unquestionable indications of revolutions 
and changes. 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 135 

If the works of nature tlius obey the great law of 
change, still more readily do the material works of man 
yield to the same law — works, too, which were designed 
for permanence, and built for eternity. Thebes, the 
hundred-gated; Babylon, the city of palaces; Tadmor, 
that flourished amidst palm-trees; Baalbec, of mysterious 
origin and unknown founder, have all disappeared from 
the face of earth, leaving only broken ruins to mark the 
place where once they stood. Even Jerusalem, the city 
of the chosen ones; and Rome, called by her builders 
the Eternal, no longer rear, the one its magnificent tem- 
li\e, and the other its Capitol, as in days of yore. 

The law of change extends to the immaterial organiza- 
tions of human ingenuity. Political organizations have 
been ever yielding, and are yet yielding to the inevitable 
decree of change. The old Assyrian empire, the earliest 
on the records of authentic history, and for many centu- 
ries limitless in extent, and omnipotent in authority, long 
since wholly disappeared, leaving not a vestige of itself 
among men. The empire of the great Cyrus, though 
long the most remarkable in the annals of time, exists 
now only in the dim pencilings and the shadowy recollec 
tions of semi-fabulous history. The Grecian republics, 
the Grecian kingdoms, and the Grecian empire, all 
equally and effectually have disappeared forever from 
earth. The Roman organizations, beginning with a mon- 
archy, passing through the mutations of a republic, and 
terminating in an empire of boundless extent, irresistible 
power, and exhaustless resources, long ago crumbled like 
a disintegrating rock exposed to the furnace, and its 
fragments were blown away like comminuted dust. 

Among the kingdoms, empires, and republics of mod- 
ern ages, changes in precedence, relations, constitutional 
organization, and distinctive characteristics have ever 
been and are yet yarying, with all the facility of the 



136 THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

ever-changing colors of the kaleidoscope. Organizations 
founded in philosophy exhibit no lasting form. We read 
of the schools of the Peripatetics and of the Stoics, of 
the philosophical systems of Plato and of Aristotle, of 
Pythagoras and of Epicurus; but where shall we find even 
a vestige of the magnificent temple of philosophy which 
they built and adorned, and which they hoped would 
stand forever? 

Nor have religious organizations formed favored excep- 
tions to the general law of change. The mythology of 
antiquity was beautiful, extremely beautiful. The relig- 
ion of Greece was conceived by poets, and adorned with 
all the beautiful drapery within the power of exuberant 
fancy and exquisite taste. For ages it sat enthroned in 
the respect and affections of the people. Yet was its 
foundation unsubstantial as the dreams of fairy-land. 
Nor has the form of religion yet ceased, through the 
successive ages of modern history, to change its phases. 
It would seem that the religious sentiment is, in man, 
inherent in nature, incessant in action, and perpetual in 
duration. But the form in which it embodies itself is 
ever-changing. The dwellers along the valley of the 
Nile embodied and adored the great powers of nature. 
The accomplished and educated Greeks personified and 
worshiped the intellectual and moral attributes of human- 
ity. The Jew satisfied the religious sentiment by cere- 
monies, sacrifices, oblations, and observances. The early 
Christians were taught a more spiritual worship. To 
preserve, during successive ages, in any particular sect 
the same uniform usages is matter of exceeding difficulty. 
The spirit may remain the same, but the form will 
change. As well might you hope to preserve the same 
substance of body under all the changes of growth and 
decay. 

Living forms are not less liable than are aggregate or 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 137 

immaterial to mutation. Change is not the exception; 
but the law of animal and of vegetable nature. The 
process of growth and of decay is natural and certain. 
Each act of the living being is supposed to use up and 
destroy some definite portion of its substance. But liv- 
ing beings, unlike aggregate forms, unlike immaterial 
organizations, have in their own nature the power and 
the means of renewal. The consumption and the renewal 
of living matter seem thus continually going on to such 
an extent as to eflfect, as is supposed, in the human body, 
an entire change in seven years. In youth the waste is 
less than the supply of matter, and hence the body in- 
creases in size and weight. In maturity the waste and 
renewal are equal, and the body maintains its uniform 
proportion. In age the waste exceeds the renewal, and 
the body languishes, decays, and dies. 

All outward human appendances seem to have a spe- 
cific purpose, and when they have accomplished it they 
proceed rapidly to decay and dissolution. All the polit- 
ical organizations, all the theories and dogmas of philoso- 
phy, and all the varying forms of religion of antiquity 
had their end, which they accomplished, and then they 
perished. The spirit which animated these incorporeal 
forms passed, when the set time was come, into other, 
higher, and nobler forms. The spirit of religion, which 
had animated the typical and ceremonial forms of the 
Jewish worship, did, on the bringing in of the better 
covenant, forsake its old and dilapidated habitation, as 
would the winged butterfly its effete and defunct chry- 
salis, and assume the living and inexpressibly-improved 
form of Christianity. 

Each individual particle of the human body has, prob- 
ably, in like manner, its end. That purpose accom- 
plished, the effete particle is thrown from the system, 
and its place supplied by another vital particle. Each 
12* 



138 THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

age of man has its purpose. Infancy has its purpose, 
childhood its purpose, manhood its purpose. To some 
specific end all the powers of nature are for the appointed 
time directed, and then the system changes, and can 
never again become what before it had been. There is, 
therefore, no return of infancy, no return of childhood, 
no return of manhood. Decrepitude, decay, and disso- 
lution are inevitable. We must in body grow old. The 
muscles will grow hard and stiff. The bones will become 
brittle. The hair will grow gray. The wrinkles will 
come on the forehead. Furrows will mark the cheek. 
The outward man will perish. There is no prevent- 
ive — no elixir — no charm — not even a respite or sus- 
pension. 

Yet, it would seem, we have two natures — one outward, 
the other inward. Man has a physical and a spiritual 
life. His physical life is limited in duration. As a 
physical being he grows old and dies. This is the out- 
ward man, which perishes. His spiritual life is endless 
in duration. This is the inward man, which never grows 
old, never dies. 

The inward man has two modes of development, or two 
departments of action — intellect and affection. To the 
development of intellect and affection there is no limit. 
In their nature they are imperishable, and to the effi- 
ciency of their action there is no end. But, in order 
that we may secure all the advantages which our spiritual 
nature is capable of using; in order that we may be re- 
newed and may increase, day by day, in intelligence and 
in moral perfection; in order that we may never gi'ow 
old in mind or in heart, we should observe the laws and 
conditions of development and of perpetuity, which obser- 
vation and experience have determined. It seems to be 
a well-ascertained law, that those only grow not old in 
mind who diligently avail themselves of both the great 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 139 

sources or raeans of intellectual development — observa- 
tion and reflection. 

The external senses, particularly seeing and hearing, 
are given us to help us observe. Observation is an ex- 
haustless source, and an effective means of mental devel- 
opment. Observing, however, implies something more 
than mere seeing. The ox sees, but he never observes. 
He sees the flower he crops, but he observes not its 
beauties. The hog sees the pebble he roots from the 
ground, but he observes not its structure nor its form. 
The horse sees perhaps better than his rider the road 
along which he journeys, but he observes not the beauty 
of the landscape. Some men observe scarcely better 
than the ox, the hog, or the horse. To them the fairest 
flower is but a weed incumbering the cornfield. The 
noble tree of the grand old forest is only material for fire- 
wood or for lumber. The beautiful river, meandering 
through the vale, suggests only thoughts of profit in driv- 
ing a rattling saw-mill. The mountain, rearing its head 
sublime among the clouds, suggests no thoughts of inter- 
est, because it can not be plowed. Before such men Na- 
ture spreads her beauty with as little profit as might ac- 
crue from casting pearls before swine. 

Habits of observation the beast might never acquire. 
It is not in the nature of the hog to distinguish the pearl 
from the pebble; nor can the ox learn the difference be- 
tween the rose and the thistle ; nor can the horse ever 
appreciate a romantic landscape. But man may acquire 
habits of observation, and derive thereby instruction from 
the most common occurrences of nature. Newton, by 
observing an apple fall from a tree, discovered the law 
of gravitation. A boy, by observing the motion of the 
cover of his mother's tea-kettle, discovered the power of 
steam. The Grecian philosopher, by observing the quan- 
tity of water displaced by his body in the bath, discov- 



140 THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

ered the law of specific gravity. Galvani, by observing 
the action of metallic substances on the muscles of a froff, 
first noticed by his wife, discovered the wonderful science 
of galvanism ; and Morse, by observing the action of gal- 
vanic wires, discovered the science of telegraj^hing. By 
observing in childhood and in youth, we lay up nutriment 
for intellectual support in age. Youth collects and age 
uses the material of thought. Beautiful scenes, lovely 
prospects, fairy landscapes, and delightful images are 
constantly flitting before the eye of youth. If we only 
look at these scenes of interest and loveliness, no distinct 
image is formed, and no lasting impression made. But 
if we observe, the image becomes distinct, the picture 
formed, the impression fixed, by a process more mysteri- 
ous and wonderful than the daguerreian, on the tablet of 
the soul. In manhood those pictures may be obscured 
by the flitting mists of care and the floating dust of busi- 
ness. But in age they are restored in pristine beauty 
and freshness. Their colors seem even more vivid, and 
their outline better defined, than when their impression 
first fell on the soul. 

The renewal in age of pictures of observation in youth 
is clearly illustrated in a few interesting cases, in which 
men of careful observation and exquisite taste have been 
in age deprived of sight, the most efiicient of the senses. 
Homer is said to have become blind in age. "The old 
blind bard of Scio " is a well-known description of his 
person. Yet, in youth, he had been a careful observer 
of nature and of men. In age, when he could no longer 
look on nature, or observe the ways of men, the pic- 
tures of youth returned with brightness more than real, 
and he lived amid beautiful scenes and lovely land- 
scapes, such as seldom ever blessed the material eye of 
man. 

Milton in age became blind. Lover of beauty, as he 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 141 

was, he could but lament the deprivation. " Thus," 
said he, 

" "With the year 
Seasons return, but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or of morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
But clouds instead, and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed. 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out." 

Yet with what vivid distinctness returned to him the 
lovely visions of early days ! His heart was with its 
early dreams, and sweetly he sang of Paradise and of 
heaven, touching his pictures of heavenly scenery with a 
living pencil and with divine colors. 

Reflection is an agent of intellectual development 
even more efficient than observation. "We see, we observe, 
and then we reflect. Observation transfers to the mind, 
and fixes indelibly there, the individual images of per- 
sons, and of events, and of scenes. By reflection we 
combine these individual and elementary scenes and im- 
ages, forming a great gallery of pictures. Few are the 
elementary ideas obtained by observation. Innumerable 
are the pictures which reflection forms by combining 
elementary images. So that, in reality, reflection, though 
not the primary, is yet the principal agency of human 
knowledge. By the external senses ideas are admitted 
through the door into the workshop of the soul. By ob- 
servation those ideas are assorted, classified, and arranged 
in appropriate places. By reflection they are combined, 
modified, and wrought into new forms. Often so many 
elementary ideas are used, and so curiously are they com- 
bined by reflection, that the product bears as little re- 
semblance to the raw material, as does the magnificent 



142 THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

steamsliip to tlie,rough wood and native iron ore of wliicli 
it is composed. 

The habit of reflection acquired in youth becomes, in 
age, a sure preservative against mental imbecility and de- 
caying dotage. Those who use only the external senses, 
who merely see, resemble one who only looks out of the 
window on beautiful objects flitting before him. Those 
who observe resemble one who should seize those objects, 
transfer them to his room, and deposit them in appropri- 
ate places for future use. Those who reflect resemble one 
who should manufacture for himself, out of the objects 
or materials presented, an exhaustless supply of every 
thing needful for age. 

The heart of man need never grow old. It may in- 
crease in depth, and grasp, and power of afi'ection till it 
ceases to beat. But in order to this, in order not to grow 
old in heart, the afi"ections must be exercised. And they 
must be directed toward objects of worth and of perma- 
nence. If you love the world, your heart will grow old. 
If you love the riches of earth, you will become a miser. 
If you love the honors of the world, you will become a 
disappointed misanthrope. If you love the pleasures of 
the world, you will become nauseated and sicl^ and will 
loathe the very objects that excited your passions. But 
if you love virtue and goodness — virtue and goodness as 
ideal abstractions, or as embodied in the virtuous and the 
good of your companions and friends — your heart will be 
as young at sixty as at sixteen. We sometimes are cau- 
tioned against loving our friends too well. But i: our 
aff"ections be directed to the good, the virtuous, the ami- 
able, and the true, we can not love too welL It is true 
the form, in which the qualities that secure our affection 
are embodied, may disappear from our sight. The mate- 
rial organization of the bright and beauteous ones, ttie 
loved ones of the heart, may perish. But the soul, in 



THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 143 

which the qualities that gained our heart are embodied, 
yet lives, as much a legitimate object of love as when it 
animated the mortal body. They are not dead, those 
loved onesj no. They have only changed their state. 
They have only left a mortal tabernacle, dilapidated, in- 
convenient, and decaying, and gone to live, to live for- 
ever in a heavenly habitation, in the midst of society 
perfect and congenial. We love them still ; and they 
love us still ; and they may yet welcome us to the house 
of our Father in the heavens, where there are mansions 
for us as well as for them. 

Though, therefore, we must grow old in body, yet if we 
grow old in mind it is our own fault. He who merely 
sees and hears, who observes not, reflects not, and loves 
only transient things, may grow old. He is like the 
thoughtless insect, that flutters and sports the summer 
away, and makes no provision for winter. "When the 
summer is gone, and wintei', with her chilling blasts and 
driving snows, is on him, he must either die outright, or 
retire to his cell, and remain torpid till spring returns 
again. But he who observes, who reflects, and who loves 
the substantial, the permanent, the good, and the true, 
may feast in age, like the industrious and prudent bee in 
winter, on sweet and substantial substance gathered dur- 
ing youth and manhood. 

Disease and decay of the material organs do, indeed, 
sometimes obscure the manifestations, and obstruct the 
action of mind, but never afi"ect the nature of the mind 
or the heart. Decay is not an incident of intellect or of 
afi'ection. We may ascribe limits to the duration of hu- 
man existence so far as the body, but not so far as the 
mind is concerned. Annihilation of itself, termination 
of the existence of its being, is an idea of which mind 
can form no conception. Often in the dying hour, when 
friends tell the sufi'erer, and facts convince him, that he 



144 THOUGHTS ON YOUTH AND AGE. 

is dying, there seems an utter absence in the mind of all 
consciousness of change in itself. The soul feels that it 
is not dying, but only leaving its tenement for another 
and a nobler habitation. And while friends, gathering 
about the bed, are uttering cries and shedding tears, the 
dying one himself is calm and tearless, the spirit resist- 
ing the laws which destroy the body, and the soul tri- 
umphing over death, and defying the grave. Talk not, 
then^ of growing old in mind or in heart. Talk not of 
failing faculties of intellect — of decay of mind. Talk 
not of withered affections, and of exhausted sympathies. 
But observe and reflect, love the true and the good, and 
you need never be conscious of change or alteration, 
except for the better, in mind or in heart. 



SUMMER. 145 



SUMMER. 

Summer — sweet, joyous summer, how many delightful 
associations are linked to the word — associations of child- 
hood, and of home ! I have read a story, in some old 
school book, of little Frank, who, on the return of each 
of the seasons, would wish that particular season to last 
always, and the little fellow received a scolding from his 
father, for indulging in what the old gentleman pleased 
to call inconsiderate and presumptuous wishes. But I 
never could find it in my heart to blame the child. In 
autumn he was delighted with beautiful skies and mellow 
fruits : in winter, with his hand-sled and skates, he 
amused himself on the ice and snow : in spring, the green 
grass, fair flowers, and beautiful birds made him leap for 
gladness; and in summer, the waving fields of grass and 
grain presented new scenes of pleasure before him. Nor 
was it unnatural, that he, child as he was, should think 
each season more pleasant than the former, just as every 
mother thinks her youngest child the most interesting 
of the family. 

Summer has beauties not inferior to those of spring; 
though following so closely upon spring, it does not pre- 
sent so strong a contrast to the preceding season, and, 
therefore, it makes less impression on us. The fields of 
summer exhibit exquisite beauty. To stand at this sea- 
son on some gentle eminence of our prairies, and look 
over many thousands of acres of green corn and golden 
wheat waving in the breeze, ready for the harvest, is 
worth a voyage across the Atlantic. 

Come with me, gentle reader, and look upon our beau- 
18 



146 S U ai M E R . 

tiful Wabash plains. The fair-haired Ceres, while wan- 
dering over earth in search of her lost daughter, must 
have visited these lovely plains, and been charmed with 
the beauty of the region, for see how she has scattered 
over the ground her priceless gifts ! And well might she, 
goddess though she was, be delighted with the place, for 
who ever saw such a country? Look over these plains. 
What exhaustless fertility! See what beautiful clusters 
of trees, seeming like green islands in the ocean ! Nei- 
ther Calypso's sea-girt isle, nor the fairy land of song, 
nor Eden, as depicted by Milton, could equal, in exqui- 
site loveliness, the scene now before us. See what end 
less fields of wheat waving in the gentle south-west 
breeze ! Here plenty reigns and revels. Come hither, 
thou who art fond of the beautiful, and say, didst thou 
ever look on such a scene? The interchange of prairie, 
and woodland, and running stream, and the variety of 
color, as the fields wave in the sunshine, form a picture 
of beauty which no painter may imitate. Come hither, 
ye poor, ye hungry, and look on the exhaustless provis- 
ions of nature for the supply of the wants of man. Let 
Europe send forth her starving millions. These prairies, 
if there were hands but sufficient to cultivate them to 
the extent of which they are capable, might produce suf- 
ficient to supply the world. 

But the sunshine grows hot, and we must leave the 
open prairie, and take shelter in this cluster of trees. 
The forests are beautiful in summer. The prairie trees 
seem young, as if they were but children, though the 
oldest inhabitant here may not remember when they were 
not; but the trees of the woodland seem old and venera- 
ble. These oaks, and sycamores, and elms, tell of the 
past. There is an old elm that throws its shadow, at 
sunset, upon my study window. It stands alone — all its 
companions have fallen by the woodman's ax. Its noble 



S U M M E R . 147 

trunk stands erect, and far above the tops of the trees in 
the forest beyond, it throws out its graceful branches 
against the clear sky. Its smaller limbs hang drooping, 
as if in sorrow for the loneliness of its situation. That 
fine old tree belongs to other days, and could it speak, it 
might a tale unfold. It stood there when the Indian 
roauied these woods. It stood there when the white man 
first built his cabin, on the spot where, since, has risen a 
fine town, and it stands there still, though surrounded by 
farm-houses and cottages. I love that old tree, and I 
have requested my neighbor, on whose land it stands, to 
spare it from the ax, and I hope I may rescue it from 
that Vandalism which is ruining all these fine old monu- 
ments of the past, which might, if spared, add so much 
to the beauty of the country. 

Near my childhood's home was a plain, that seemed to 
me illimitable, covered with a most splendid forest of 
pine, fir, and tamarack. Its lively green, appearing even 
in winter, and more striking from contrast with the snow, 
was one of the first things that awoke in my heart the 
love of the beautiful. There came forth, from that for- 
est, sounds, which none, who has once heard, can ever 
forget. A pine forest forms the harp of the winds, and 
when touched by the breeze it sends forth inimitable 
music. That forest was a favorite resort in my early 
days. There I rambled with buoyant spirit when a child, 
and there I sat under some old pine, in my maturer and 
studious days, with book or pen in hand. I fear, how- 
ever, that should I again visit that old forest, I might 
find it sadly changed; for what men call public improve- 
ment has been there, and the snorting steam-horse, rush- 
ing with his ponderous car over its iron track, has scared 
away all the sylvan associations of the place. 

What scenes of intense sublimity are sometimes wit- 
nessed, in our western country, during a summer shower! 



148 SUMMER. 

The thunder rumbles not among the distant hills, as in 
New England, echoing from side to side of the mount- 
ains, and reaching the ear only after the sound is greatly 
diminished by repeated reflections, but it bursts upon us 
at once with a startling intensity, or a deafening crash. 
The lightnings sometimes flash out quietly from every 
point of the horizon to the zenith, and then, again, they 
dart from cloud to cloud, or to the earth, in a zigzag 
chain of exceeding brilliancy. The innumerable pools 
of water, fallen from the clouds, and covering the face 
of the earth, lighted up by the electric flashes, shine like 
myriads of silver mirrors. For a scene of glorious sub- 
limity, give me a summer shower on some western plain. 
And then how quiet the sky, and how beautiful the earth, 
when the shower is over ! 

In summer we have fewer birds than in spring. The 
mocking-bird, the sweetest of all singers, is seldom heard 
in this neighborhood after June. He comes in early 
spring, and sits and sings all day on the topmost branch 
of the willow that grows near my cottage, and I have 
sometimes heard him all night long. Once he began to 
build his nest in the honeysuckle that climbs up the lat- 
tice at my door, but some passer-by scared him away. 
The sweet singer has now gone, I know not where, but 
he has left the memory of his tones in my heart. The 
sparrow, the whippowil, and the robin, are with us yet. 
The cuckoo is sometimes heard, but seldom seen, in the 
neighboring thicket. 

I love the birds, nor will I suffer them to be injured 
on my premises. I envy not the heart of that man, who 
can wantonly, for sport and pleasure, destroy these sweet 
little beings that sing about our homes; for the birds are 
only found near the homes of man. They frequent not 
the forest, but live about the bushes, clusters of trees, 
and orchards, in the settled parts of the country. Hav- 



SUMMER. 149 

aig occasion once to visit tte head waters of the Kenne- 
bec and Penobscot, some hundred miles from human hab- 
itation, in the depths of the forest, among romantic hills 
and quiet lakes, I was surprised at the absence of birds, 
and the unnatural stillness that prevailed. In convers- 
ing with, the boatmen and lumbermen, who spend much 
of their time in those regions, I learned that when once 
they leave the habitations of men, they leave, also, the 
birds behind. 

The birds are domestic beings. They love man, and 
should be loved by him, for they are his benefactors. A 
strange mistake prevails among farmers with regard to 
the birds. Some species occasionally do the fai'mer some 
injury by picking off a little fruit, or by picking up a lit- 
tle grain, and he proclaims war of extermination against 
the whole race. But the benefit the birds do the farmer 
in destroying worms, bugs, and insects, is a hundred-fold 
more than the injury they occasionally commit on the 
grains and fruits. Sometimes he kills them in the very 
act of doing him a favor. A speckled woodpecker is 
seen working away on the body of an apple-tree : the 
farmer, supposing the bird to be injuring the tree, kills 
him. Yet the fact is, the tree is infested by worms, 
under its bark. These would soon destroy it, were it not 
that the woodpecker searches them out and consumes 
them. The blackbird sometimes pulls up the corn ; but 
where he pulls up one spear of corn, he kills ten worms, 
that might eat up a hundred spears of corn. Were the 
birds all killed ofi^, the destructive insects would become 
so numerous as to eat up, like the locusts of Egypt, every 
green thing. Then spare the birds. Spare them for 
their own sake. Spare them for your own sake. Spare 
them for humanity's sake. 

13* 



150 TO AN ABSENT CHILD 



TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 

Come home, my lovely child, come home. Too long 
hast thou been absent. I miss thee, my dear one — miss 
thee too much from thy home. I miss thee at morning; 
"when rising from ray bed I hear not thy cheerful voice. 
I miss thee at the table ; when looking around on my 
loved ones I see thy seat vacant. I listen in vain for thy 
sweet voice, when we read in family circle, at the hour 
of morning devotion, the lessons of holy inspiration. I 
miss thee as I pass the window where thou thoughtful wert 
seated with thy bird and thy book. I miss thee at Rosa- 
bower, where the violets are blooming over thy sister's 
grave. I miss thee at my study in the sequestered vale, 
where thou didst often come, with thy sweet smile and 
joyous voice to cheer my sad heart. I miss thee at twi- 
light from the garden walks around our humble cottage. 
I miss thee at night when I look on my sleeping loved 
ones, but see thee not. 

I think of thee when absent — think of thee too much. 
I think of the hour when first I heard thy young voice, 
and looked on thy infant features, and clasped thee to 
my glad heart. 

I think of the pleasant summer evenings when thou, a 
tiny little child, wouldst run to meet me returning home, 
and trip along, light as the fawn, with arms outstretched 
for an embrace, and lips ready for a kiss. I think of the 
blessed horn-, on that vernal Sabbath evening, when I 
led thee to the altar of prayer, and saw thee give thy 
hand to the Church and thy heart to God. I think of 
the sad hour when I saw thee approach the bier, as the 



TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 151 

coffin lid was falling, forever to shut out the light of 
earth from the fair face of thy only sister, and imprint 
the last farewell kiss on her pale brow. 

And now, my child, come home. Thy mother's eyes 
are sleepless for thy return. Thy little brother asks, 
''Why don't Ellen come?" And I, alas! hour after 
hour I wander sadly about the garden where together we 
picked the ripened fruit, and the forest where we gath- 
ered wildwood flowers, and I sit under the old tree at the 
bower, pensive and lonely. Come back, then, my child, 
and smile on me once more. Come back and sing me 
the song I love to hear. Come back, and let me hear 
again the halls of home resound with thy merry voice. 



152 VALLEY IN THE MOUN TAIN -LAND . 



THE VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAIN-LAND. 

From the hill, hanging over the green valley, where 
cozily nestled the old homestead, I often looked on the 
long range of blue mountains that rose, some hundred 
miles or more distant, in the north-west, and wondered 
what fair land might repose in summer sunlight beyond 
that misty boundary of the horizon. In summer and in 
winter, in spring and in autumn, at morning, at noon, 
and at night, a soft and mellow atmosphere seemed rest- 
ing over that distant land. Did there summer perpetual 
bloom? Were there the skies always cloudless, and the 
breezes always gentle, and the sunshine always pleasant? 
Was there the happy land, shadowy glimpses of whose 
unearthly scenery so often, in sleeping dreams and wak- 
ing reveries, flitted over my soul? Might I there find 
the ideal of my imaginings, the beautiful and the good, 
for which my youthful heart had long pined? Might I 
there meet some angelic being, for whose congenial sym- 
pathy my soul had so long yearned? Might I there find 
some fair and gentle one, who could read the invisible 
record of experience and of anxiety in a heart, whose 
deep emotions none had sounded, and with whose agita- 
tions of hope and of despondency no other heart had 
ever vibrated in harmony? 

One fine morning of my seventeenth autumn, I looked 
again toward that mountain-land, and resolved to make 
my way to its mysterious precincts. With a small pack- 
age in my hand, and a very few dimes in my pocket, I 
started on foot and alone for the north-west. After a 
few hours of devious rambling over the fields, through 



VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAIN -LAND. 153 

the woods, and in the pastures, I arrived on the banks 
of the Androscoggin, at the Falls of Lewiston, where 
the river, rushing, and roaring, and foaming, and boiling, 
pours over the rocky precipice. I sat down on a project- 
ing rock, besprinkled with the spray of the waters, whose 
thundering roar I had often heard booming over the hills 
far away. Wild was the scene. The river came gently 
and quietly along, with not a ripple on its surface, till it 
reached the very brink of the precipice, when suddenly, 
as if surprised and startled, it leaped over the rocks, and 
went dashing on its way. Not a house nor a field ap- 
peared in sight. Nature alone reigned with unquestioned 
sway over the spot. There was nothing to break the 
spell of romantic interest thrown around the scene. 
Grand old forest-trees threw their dense shade over the 
landscape. On the rocky hight stood the oak with its 
full, spreading top; and on the plain rose, straight and 
limbless, the pine, its green tassels mournfully sighing in 
the autumn wind. 

Leaving the falls and the river, I journeyed along over 
a pine forest plain. The trees stood at irregular distan- 
ces, their smooth and straight trunks appearing like col- 
umns supporting a canopy of dark and dense foliage, 
through which came the autumn sunlight in scant and 
softened rays. Through their waving tassels sadly moaned 
the autumn wind. Beautiful, very beautiful, seemed that 
old evergreen forest. Beautiful was the soft carpet of 
fallen leaves on the ground. Beautiful stood the pines 
with their towering trunks. Beautiful spread the green 
canopy overhead. Pleasant, though mournful, was the 
sound of the sighing wind in the lofty branches. 

Beyond the plain rose a high hill, covered from its 
base to its summit with a grove of noble oaks. Up the 
hill wound the road in many a serpentine curve. From 
the summit appeared a prospect beautiful, and bounded 



154 VALLEY IN THE M O U N T AI N - L AN D . 

but by the horizon. On the south lay the pine forest, 
stretching away in one unbroken range, and the river 
flowing on between its evergreen banks, till in the far 
distance both were lost — the river mingling its waters 
with the ocean, and the forest plain forming the line of 
coast. On the east lay an undulating region of wood- 
lands, fields, and pastures, with farm-houses, and villages, 
and steeples of rural churches peering up amid the va- 
riegated foliage of autumn. On the west lay sleeping in 
the fair sunshine, dreaming of perpetual summer, a lake 
of pure, transparent water — one of those little, lovely 
lakes forming a general and marked feature of the mount- 
ain landscapes of New England. Over the bosom of the 
peaceful waters was floating a soft and wavy light. From 
the mirrory surface was reflected the graceful forms of 
the pines that skirted the shores. Not a wave beat the 
margin, nor a ripple moved on the surface of the tran- 
quil waters. On the north still loomed up the mysteri- 
ous mountain-land. My position of observation, nearer 
than I had ever before attained, presented the mountains 
in bolder outline. Their summits seemed greatly eleva- 
ted. Their sides were marked by bold ridges and deep 
furrows. They seemed a barrier impassable : nor could I 
imagine how I should reach the fairy-land, which I knew 
must lie beyond. Kesuming my journey, on I went, 
downhill, and uphill, and over plain, and along valley, 
and across winding stream. The mountain-land lay still 
before me. One range of hills being past, another higher 
still arose, seeming to lie right along my path. But on- 
ward pressing my way, I wound around the hills, along 
the valleys, and over the gentle slopes of the uplands, 
leaving the rugged hills standing like fortifications im- 
pregnable, but too distant to arrest or annoy the invader. 
And thus I saw to-day far behind me the grand and 
gloomy mountains, which yesterday threatened an obsta- 



VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAIN-LAND. 155 

cle insurmountable in my path. I often wondered how I 
had so easily evaded the difficulty, which I might in vain 
hope to surmount. Often thus, in the journey of human 
life, our way seems impassably barred, our progress inev- 
itably arrested, and ourselves lost in a threadless laby- 
rinth. We become disheartened and desponding. But 
go on. There is a way, "which the vulture's eye hath 
not seen, nor the lion's whelp trod." There '^is a path 
which no fowl knoweth." The unerring finger of Provi- 
dence will direct your steps. Go forward, then, with a 
firm faith and a manly heart. 

After some days of weary travel, I had meandered 
around the north-western base of a craggy hill, and 
reached an elevated table-land of dark forest. Passing 
around a point of woodland into an open glade, I saw 
suddenly opening before me one of the loveliest prospects 
that ever rose on human vision. Before me lay a valley, 
extending far to the north and to the south. On the 
east and west it was bounded by gently-sloping hills, cov- 
ered with orchards, and fields, and farm-houses. Through 
the midst of the valley flowed a clear, rapid river, mean- 
dering through the meadows, sometimes kissing the hills 
on one side, and then on the other. The valley was a 
smooth and level lawn, over which were scattered, in sin- 
gle specimens and in clusters, tall old elms and vigorous 
young maples. The course of the river was marked by 
the bright gleam of its clear waters, rippling along over 
a pebbly bed. 

I looked over the river on the eastern shore, and there 
cstood, on a terraced plain, one of those fairy villages seen 
only in New England, and when once seen never forgot- 
ten. One long street, lined with magnificent elms, ex- 
tended fur a iliile along the terraced plain. On each side 
of t!ie street, shaded by the elms, and embowered in 
shrubbery, stood the neat white cottages. In an open 



156 VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAIN-LAND. 

square stood a venerable cliurcli, witli a tall steeple, from 
which were pealing forth, on the still air of the autumn 
evening, the clear and mellow sounds of a sweet-toned 
bell. In rear of the church was a beautiful cemetery, in 
which slept the departed loved ones of the hamlet, in 
graves marked by tablets of white marble. Not far from 
the church, on a spacious plain, amidst trees and orna- 
mented shrubbery, stood the academy, around which had 
clustered for many years the youth of the valley to receive 
instruction in the higher branches of science. 

Some miles south of my point of view, at the lower 
end of the valley, where the river abruptly turned to the 
east, appeared another village, embowered and nearly 
concealed by grand old elms, standing on each side of 
the wide street, and intertwining their noble branches 
far above the neighboring cottages. Farther still south 
stretched away, in the dim distance of the plain, a forest 
of pines. 

Turning again to the north, and looking far up the val- 
ley, I saw a most grand landscape. A circular chain of 
lofty mountains inclosed the valley on the north, the east, 
and the west, leaving only an opening south, through 
which flowed the river. In the noble amphitheater lay 
nestled the living fountains of the beautiful rivei*. In 
the circular chain of mountains, inclosing the valley were 
peaks of vast hight. On their utmost summits was fall- 
ing the sunlight of evening, while all along their sides 
were gathering shadows, and in the deep ravines was 
darkness visible. 

I stood fixed on the spot, admiring the beautiful, the 
grand, the glorious scene, till night began to throw her 
dim shadows over the landscape. I then made my way 
to a hospitable dwelling, whei'e I spent the night. When 
the morning came, I arose early to resume my tour of 
observation along the happy valley. As I passed up 



VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAIN-LAND. 157 

along the river-side, or wound around the base of the 
hills, new views were constantly opening before me, and 
new scenes appearing on the landscape. Placid lakes of 
cool, transparent water lay quiet and still in the seques- 
tered forest. Perennial fountains burst out of the hill- 
side, and sent a living stream along the meadow. Spark- 
ling rivulets poured by a series of cascades down the 
mountain, till they reached the river valley, through 
whose green borders they gently meandered between 
rows of golden willows and weeping elms. tSheltored 
vales lay imbosomed among the hills, forming, from early 
spring till late in autumn, a paradise of birds and of flow- 
ers. There were neat farm-houses peering out through 
the green trees and perched on the hill-sides. The hill- 
tops were covered with forest-trees, their verdant sides 
were cropped by bleating flocks and lowing herds, and 
the valleys at their base were waving with the ripened 
corn. To me my fairy visions seemed realized. I had 
reached the mysterious valley among the hills, to which 
I had so often looked with admiring interest. Beautiful, 
very beautiful, it proved to be, yet not altogether such as 
my youthful fancy had pictured it. Perpetual spring 
smiled not, nor summer bloomed always there. The au- 
tumn came with its falling leaf, and winter ruled there 
often with an iron scepter. Around those mountain 
peaks the storm sometimes terribly beat, and along the 
valley the winds often piped a merry whistle. 

Happily, cheerfully, joyously passed in that ftiir land 
the years of my youth, till there came on me the respon- 
sibilities of manhood. I then emerged from my seques- 
tered retreat, and rushed out into the busy world. And 
many, very many years — years numbering nearly a gen- 
eration of human life — have passed over my head, since 
the morning of my departure from that fair land of 
youthful aff"ection, yet my heart nestles there still. 

14 



158 VALLEY IN THE MOU N TAIN -LAND . 

There yet hangs in the inner chamber of my soul a fade- 
less picture of the whole landscape. The mountains are 
as blue, the valleys as soft and dreamy, the river as clear, 
the cascades as lively, the cottages as vphite, the hills as 
green, and the ravines as romantic as vrhen they all stood 
within the circle of my visual horizon. 

Strange, mysterious seems the conceptual power of 
mind, by which we create at pleasure spiritual images of 
the objects of sense, the perfect counterpart of past per- 
ceptions. By what daguerreian process are the forms, 
lineaments, and even color of beautiful objects drawn 
and fixed on the soul? 



THE CAREER OF MAHOMET. 159 



THOUGHTS ON THE CAREER OF MAHOMET. 

That all events in the progress of human history 
arc under the control of a superintending Providence; 
that men, though free to will, and free to act, have no 
power to determine the final result of their agency in 
human ajBFairs; that the almighty One can use, and the 
omniscient One does use, the good, the bad, and the in- 
different, as instruments, willing or unwilling, to promote 
his own glory and the interests of humanity ; and that, 
in the final consummation of all things, the grand result 
will appear consistent with the power, wisdom, and be- 
nevolence of the Deity, however untoward may have been 
the spirit and perverted the ways of men, are truths 
taught by revelation, by reason, and by observation. 

In looking over the history of the world, we may fre- 
quently, after the lapse of a few centuries, trace clearly 
the course of Providence in educing good from evil. 
Sometimes, however, the final result of the events 
evolved from human history may not appear for many 
thousand years. Yet he who believes in Providence will 
never sufi'er himself to despond of good amid the changes 
and revolutions of time. 

In tracing the strange career of Mahomet, and in ob- 
serving the surprising fact, that, the great cycle of 
twelve centuries having passed away, his system of relig- 
ion, false and worthless as it appears to Christians, does 
yet retain much of life, of power, and of influence, we 
are led to inquire what could be, and what can yet be, 
the designs of Providence in permitting so extensive a 



160 THE CAREER OP MAHOMET. 

range, so vast an influence, and so long a period of time 
to Islamism ? 

Mahomet was born at Mecca, in Arabia, about the 
middle of the sixth century. At the time of his birth 
his father was absent on a journey. While on his way 
home he fell sick, and died at Medina, without once look- 
ing on the face of his only child. Some little property 
was left; but being, according to Arabian law and usage, 
all appropriated to the brothers, the widow and orphan 
were left homeless and penniless. The mother of Ma- 
homet, by her own energies, protected and maintained 
him for six years, when she died, leaving him to the 
charities of his grandfather, a very aged man, one of the 
hereditary guardians of the sacred temple of Mecca. 
After about two years, the venerable man also died, leav- 
ing the poor child, at the age of eight years, utterly 
alone. From family pride, more than from love to the 
orphan, one of his uncles consented to give him a place 
in his tent. 

The sorrows and bereavements which he had so early 
suffered; the knowledge of his father's influence, which 
was lost to him, and property of which he had beec 
unjustly deprived; the memory of his amiable and beau- 
tiful mother, who had died in her youth of a broken 
heart; and the ever-present reality of his own lonely and 
dependent condition, induced in him habits of serious 
meditation and anxious thought. He would wander 
away alone over the hills, and sit for hours in some hid- 
den cave, brooding over his hapless lot. At times he 
would feel conscious of inherent energy and personal 
power yet to rise, in spite of fate, to a station of influ- 
ence among his people. He resolved not to yield with- 
out a struggle to the force of unfortunate circumstances. 
"Misfortune," said he, "shall not triumph over me, if 
I can help it." He began to exhibit indications of an 



THE CAREER OF MAHOMET. 161 

excitable mindj of vivid imagination, of brilliant wit, 
of quick perception, and of sound judgment. 

As soon as he became of an available age, he was put 
by his uncle to business, in mercantile expeditions over 
the desert. From the age of thirteen to twenty-five, he 
was constantly engaged in traffic, and in crossing and 
recrossing the desert with caravans, from Mecca to Da- 
mascus. This kind of life afforded no means of acquir- 
ing knowledge from books, but great opportunities for 
becoming acquainted with men. All these advantages 
he improved in the best possible manner. He observed 
and he inquired. By the evening fire, and in the noon- 
tide shade, he listened to the stories of his fellow-trav- 
elers, rehearsing the wonderful things they had seen and 
heard in many an adventurous expedition. In the marts 
which he visited, he met strangers from places various 
and far distant, and often learned from them new and 
valuable facts. He frequently met Jews and Christians, 
and learned from them the story of Moses and of Christ. 
All these things he treasured up, and pondered in his 
heart. 

At the age of twenty-five, having become expert in the 
usual mode of mercantile dealing, he was appointed agent 
of a wealthy widow, who was continuing the business of 
caravan traffic, in which her husband had been engaged. 
By his business talents he won the respect, by his hon- 
esty the confidence, and by his amiable deportment the 
love of the lady, and she offered him her heart, her 
hand, and her fortune. The offer was gratefully ac- 
cepted; and Mahomet found himself in possession of 
property sufficient to raise him to distinction in Mecca, 
and of a wife whose mind and person proved a greater 
prize than her fortune. 

Being no longer obliged to work for a living, he had 
leisure for retirement and meditation The religious 
14* 



162 THE CAREER OF MAMOMET. 

office held by liis gvaudfatlier may have made him early 
conversant with sacred rites, and disposed him to divine 
contemphation. Though brought up, as were all his peo- 
ple of that age, an idolater, yet he had learned from the 
Jews and Christians that great truth, fundamental of all 
religious truth, that God is One. Idolatry he knew to 
be wrong in spirit, and degrading in practice. Yet idol- 
atry was the established religion of his people and of 
his country — idolatry, with its horrid rites, even human 
sacrifices — idolatry, with its long train of barbarous 
usages and cruel superstitions. Infanticide, the most 
unnatural, the most shocking of all crimes, was only one 
of the fruits of idolatrous, Arabic superstition in the 
sixth century. Mahomet's own grandfather had escaped 
sacrifice in infancy only by accident. The terrible des- 
tiny of infant sacrifice fell more often on the lovely and 
beautiful of the race — the female child. The fair and 
delicate being was permitted to grow up in the family to 
the age of five or six years, and then, when it had be- 
come most interesting to the household and most fond 
of life, its own father, with his own hands, would thrust 
it alive into the grave, reckless of its fearful cries and 
its imploring entreaties, smothering the voice of weeping, 
and shutting out forever the sunlight from the fair face 
of the youthful innocent. Such was the religion, such 
were the dreadful customs, of the people, among whom 
was cast the lot of Mahomet. Such a religion he determ- 
ined to subvert — such customs he resolved to abolish. 
Poetic in temperament, ardent in feeling, sensitive to 
emotion, imaginative in conception, strong in thought, 
and bold in enterprise, he applied himself with all his 
power to the work. 

He had no adequate notion of the great scheme of the 
Divine revelation, of the nature and office of Christ, of 
the plan of redemption, of the way of salvation, and of 



THE CAREER OP MAUOMET. 163 

the institutions of the Gospel; yet was he in advance, 
far in advance, immeasurably far in advance, of his peo- 
ple. He felt strongly solicitous to reform the national 
religion, to destroy idolatry, to abolish the cruel rites 
and ceremonies of the times, and to bring the people 
back to the primitive faith and pure worship of the pa- 
triarchs — of Abraham, and of Ishmael, and of Moses. 
His interest in the subject became intense; his retire- 
ment became protracted ; his meditations became deep 
and serious. He felt called to become a reformer among 
the people. He was moved by influences he could not 
resist, to undertake the hazardous enterprise of chang- 
ing the opinions and of subverting the long-established 
usages of the nation. In the rapturous ecstasies in 
which he fell, during his hours of lonely meditation, 
believing himself called by the sovereign One, Creator 
of the universe and Ruler of men, to subvert idolatry 
and restore the pure worship of Jehovah, he might easily 
fancy himself favored with heavenly visions. 

Returning home one evening, from a day of dreamy 
reverie, spent in a solitary cave among the mountains, 
fasting, lying on his back on the ground, his face envel- 
oped in a mantle, engaged deeply in prayer and medita- 
tion, he told his wife there appeared to him a miraculous 
manifestation — the angel Gabriel — announcing to him 
the appointment as prophet of the Most High. He ex- 
pressed, however, some doubt of the reality of the mani- 
festation. It might be a dream, though it appeared to 
him a reality. To his devoted wife his character had 
always appeared perfect, his motives sincere, and his con- 
duct honorable. She had unlimited confidence in him. 
To her his unimpeachable character seemed satisfactory 
evidence of his divine mission. Joyfully, therefore, she 
received him in his new character as prophet of God, 
and encouraged him to doubt not the heavenly vision 



164 THE CAREER OE MAHOMET. 

but to go boldly forward in the work committed to 
him. 

Cheered by the influence of his amiable wife, he ven- 
tured to communicate the revelation, which he, no doubt, 
sincerely thought made to him, to a few of his personal 
friends. He soon gained three other converts to the 
new faith— his servant, Zeid ; his youthful cousin, Ali ; 
and Abubelcer, a respectable citizen of Mecca. He then 
determined to proclaim openly his mission. He invited 
his kinsfolk to a feast at his own house. There were 
present about forty persons. After some time spent in 
eating and in social conversation, Mahomet solemnly 
arose in their midst, and declared to them his mission 
He exposed the folly and the wickedness of idolatry, 
severely ridiculed the absurdities of popular belief, eulo- 
gized the faith of the ancient patriarchs, and told them 
he was commissioned by Grod to reclaim them to the 
religion of Abraham, and of Moses, and of the prophets. 
But they laughed him to scorn. They pronounced him 
a fanatic, to whose visionary harangues no sane man 
should for a moment listen. 

Mahomet, however, stood dauntless, and confident in 
the truth of his doctrines and the divinity of his mis- 
sion. Being rejected by his kinsfolk, he appealed to the 
people, and boldly proclaimed his mission, and unceas- 
ingly lifted up his voice of warning in the streets of 
Mecca, and in the public places. He was zealous and 
eloquent. He plied the force of reasoning; he appealed 
to the conscience ; he touched the heart. The people 
listened, and many of them believed. 

The tribe of Arabians to which Mahomet belonged 
was of priestly prerogative. To it was consigned the 
administration of religious affairs. They began to fear 
their craft might be in danger. Mahomet was becoming 
popular. Should he succeed in undermining and over- 



THE CAREER OF MAHOMET. 165 

throwing the established religion, their occupation would 
be gone. They resolved, therefore, to crush him. They 
first charged him with heresy and apostasy. But he still 
made converts. They then entered into a vow of pro- 
scription, withdrawing all business and social intercourse 
from him and his family, till he should cease inveighing 
against the religious usages, and declaiming against the 
religious faith of the country. But the league, though 
faithfully kept and strictly enforced by the confederates, 
had no influence on Mahomet. Still he preached, and 
still the people believed. Then they resolved to end his 
troublesome pretensions by assassination, and appointed 
a large committee to carry out the plot. The conspira- 
tors surrounded his house in the night, intending to 
assassinate him whenever he should go out in the morn- 
ing. But he had been informed of the stratagem, and 
had escaped, and hid himself, with his faithful adherent, 
Abubeker, in a cave. In the morning the assassins, 
finding he had eluded them, went in pursuit of them, 
and passed right by the mouth of the cave in which the 
fugitives were concealed. As Abubeker heard them 
tramping about the cavern, he whispered in terror to 
Mahomet, ''There are many of them, and only two of 
us." "Say, rather, three of'US," said the fearless Ma- 
homet; '' for God is here." As soon as his pursuers were 
gone, Mahomet arose, left his cave, and fled, in great 
haste, to Medina, where he was gladly received and 
chivalrously protected. The flight to Medina is culled 
the hegira, and is the era from which time is reckoned 
in Mahometan countries. 

Immediately on getting fairly established in Medina, 
he built, laboring at it with his own hands, a house of 
worship, in which he preached and enforced his doc- 
trines. Converts were rapidly multiplied. He soon 
found himself at the head of a powerful and enthusi- 



166 THE CAREER OF MAHOMET. 

astic party, ready to go with him to battle, to prison, or 
to death. 

Thus far we find in his course little to censure and 
much to approve. But the means which he afterward 
used to increase his influence, and to propagate his relig- 
ious system, were ''evil, only evil, and that continually." 
With the design evidently of imposing on the credulity 
of his followers, he pretended to receive frequent reve- 
lations from Heaven ; and for the purpose of punishing 
his persecutors, and enforcing his doctrines, he mar- 
shaled his followers, and went forth to battle against the 
unbelievers, whom he conquered in a series of brilliant 
engagements, till all Arabia lay prostrate before him and 
submissive to him. 

Far be from me the disposition to approve of impos- 
ture or of war, yet would I not withhold my admiration 
from one who, in a dark age, and among a barbarous peo- 
ple, by the enorgies of his own mind, without the influ- 
ence of friends or the advantages of education, dared to 
undertake, and succeeded in establishing, reform in the 
religion and the usages of his people. Nor would I re- 
quire of Mahomet a character founded on the model of 
Christianity, or of the Greek and Roman philosophy 
Of Christianity he knew theoretically little, and experi- 
mentally nothing. Of Grecian literature and Roman 
civilization he was profoundly ignorant. More justly 
might we compare him with the Montezumas of Mexico, 
or the Incas of Peru, or the Indian brave of the North 
American forests. Nor would I withhold from him the 
meed of praise for many private virtues. He main- 
tained, according to the moral code of the country and 
the times, an unsullied reputation. In the midst of his 
elevation and his power, he lived in very simple style, 
affecting no dignity of state, putting on no airs, and 
indulging in no luxurious living. Considering the age 



THE CAREER OP MAHOMET. 167 

in which he lived, and the society with whom he associ- 
ated, I must pronounce him a remarkable man, of con- 
summate talents, and of many amiable virtues. 

But whatever estimate we may place on the character 
of Mahomet, none lo'dl, none can deny, that his system 
of religion, even in its worst form, was vastly superior, 
both in theory and in practice, to the Arabian idolatry. 
Nor was Mahometanism confined in space to Arabia, nor 
in time to the cycle of the sixth century. His success- 
ors ran a brilliant race, and erected a throne of dazzling 
renown, of irresistible power, and of indefinite duration. 
A century from the death of the Prophet had passed, 
and the Mahometan empire extended from the Indus to 
the Atlantic. Eight centuries had passed, and the re- 
nowned empire of the eastern Cassars, with all its wealth 
and magnificence, was absorbed in the Saracen domain. 
Twelve centuries have passed, and the end is not yet. The 
crescent yet waves over the palaces of the city of Con- 
stantino, on the Bosphorus, over the valley of the Nile, 
and over Jerusalem, once the city of the great King. 

It may yet be too early for us to solve the providential 
problem presented in the history of Mahometanism. 
Some other observer, placed on a point of time thou- 
sands of years now future, may be able, looking back 
over the past, and reading the observations there re- 
corded, to calculate the end, both of time and of purpose, 
which the omniscient and almighty One has fixed for the 
winding up of the matter, and for the solution of the 
mystery. Till that day we must wait, patiently wait, 
knowing that with the Lord a thousand years are only as 
one day. In our interest and curiosity we may inquire, 
as did Daniel, the prophet, *' 0, my Lord, what shall be 
the end of these things?" And we may receive the 
same answer, ''Go thy way, for the words are closed up, 
and sealed till the time of the end." 



168 THE child's funeral, 



THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 

As I was returning from the east, I arrived toward 
evening at a village at the foot of the Alleghany Mount- 
ains, near the head waters of the Potomac. Desirous of 
crossing the mountains by daylight, I determined to re- 
main in the village till morning. After resting for a 
short time, I sallied forth for a ramble, and spent an 
hour or more in climbing the hills, and in admiring the 
romantic scenery of the place. I then returned to the 
hotel, and was sitting at my window, when I saw passing 
a funeral procession. At the head of the procession 
walked the minister of God, with the sacred book in 
hand. Next to him followed four young and beautiful 
girls, dressed in pure white robes, with long white vails 
spread over their heads, and suspended over their faces. 
They bore on a bier a little child, over whose coffin was 
spread a white pall. After the bier followed the father 
and mother of the child; and the procession was closed 
by a small company of neighbors. I arose and joined 
the procession ; for I never shun a funeral, though it 
revive in my own heart recollections which I would gladly 
let sleep. We wound around the crowded streets of the 
busy village, and entered a neglected graveyard, near an 
old church. I stood by while the coffin was lowered, and 
the grave filled. No service was performed at the burial, 
except a brief prayer ; but my thoughts were busy and 
my heart full. The parents appeared plain, simple- 
hearted people, apparently poor. This child might be 
their only one — their sole earthly treasure. They ut- 
tered not a word, but they looked the picture of grief 



THE child's funerat, . 169 

and sadness. How many hopes had perished with that 
child ! What bright visions had vanished ! When the 
little mound was heaped up over the lost one, the com- 
pany, without ceremony, dispersed. But the parents 
stood, looking with intense agony at the grave. I step- 
ped up to them, took each by the hand, and was about to 
speak a word of consolation ; but my heart forbade my 
lips uttering a word. We all three wept together for a 
moment, then silently shook hands in sympathy, and sep- 
arated never to meet again. They left the graveyard by 
a retired street. I stood looking after them, and saw 
them enter a small but neat cottage, in full view of the 
very spot where they had laid their child to sleep. How 
desolate to their hearts was now their home ! Cheerful 
might blaze the fire on the social hearth, fair might 
bloom the flowers in the door-yard, green might wave the 
trees over their cottage, lovely might the fertile valley 
spread out before them, and beautiful the blue hills might 
loom up around their home; but the light of the bright 
eyes of their only one was quenched forever. A fairer 
flower than blooms in earth's garden was withered and 
faded. A sunny brow was shrouded in the deep darkness 
of the grave. Kinglets of fair hair were twined about a 
head that lay low in the ground. Lips that once smiled 
were closed forever, and a voice of sweetness and melody 
was silent. 0, who can gauge the deep agony of bereave- 
ment that distends the heart of the childless one! Mock 
not with words the spirit of the mother, who has buried 
her only one. All the streams of human afi'ection will 
seem to center about the lost one. The whole house, 
and all the grounds about it, become a mirror, in which 
she sees only the image of her child. She listens again 
for the voice of her child. She expects to hear the light 
footfall on the floor. But all is silent. She throws up 
her window, and looks out on the grass plot, and about 

15 



170 THE child's funeral. 

the garden walks; but all is deserted. She opens the 
little chest that contains the apparel and the playthings 
now unworn and unused. Here is the little dress that 
never again will cover that lovely form. Here are the 
shoes that no more will protect those little feet. Here is 
the toy that those delicate fingers will handle no more 

" Take tliem away. I can not look 

On aught that breathes of him — 
take away this little cup ; 

His lips have touched its brim — 
Take the straw hat from off the wall, 

'Tis wreathed, with withered flowers ; 
The rustling leaves do whisper me 

Of all the loved, best hours. 

The rattle, with its music bells, 

do not let them sound ; 
The dimpled hand that grasped them once 

Is cold beneath the ground; 
And turn that picture to the wall; 

His loving, mournful eye 
Is piercing through my very heart — 

Again 1 see him die." 

Slowly and sadly wears the day away. Wearied with 
watching and with weeping, the mother lies down on her 
lonely bed. She sleeps and she dreams — she dreams of 
her child. She stretches her arms to encircle him, and 
draw him to her bosom, but he is not there. She awakes 
to vacancy and to tears. And then she hears the wild 
winds whistling about her door, and the rain pattering 
on the roof, and thinks of her child as exposed to the 
wintery wind and pitiless storm. She even imagines 
him waking from his long sleep — waking in the grave — 
and reaching forth, as he was wont in his bed, his little 
hands to her, saying, ''Mother, are you here?" 

0, chide not — chide not the bereaved one ! Tantalize 
her not with comfortless words ! 

" Go, let her weep ; there's bliss in tears." 



MAY-.TAY. 171 



MAY-DAY. 

Delightful is the merry montli of May. In its an- 
nual visit it brings along pleasant associations of the 
past. To me it brings back the feelings, the thoughts, 
and the pleasures of childhood and of youth. On my 
native hills, swept as they are by the mountain wind, 
"winter lingers in the lap of May,'' and May-day is usu- 
ally but the first opening of spring. The snow-drift on 
the mountain side yet gleams in the bright sunshine, and 
only in the sheltered dell may be seen the delicate foot- 
step of spring. On the morning of May-day, all the 
children and youth of the rural region are up betimes, to 
go on a search for wild flowers in the woods; and fortu- 
nate is the fair one 

" Who may chance to spy 
Some small star-flower, with its silvery eye," 

peeping out under a dry leaf on the sunny side of a hill. 
I well remember my last May-day excursion. The 
world might, even then, have called me no longer young; 
for many a gray hair had already appeared on my tem- 
ple. But my heart was yet young, and I went forth with 
the children, myself a child among them. 

"A lisping voice and glancing eyes were near, 

And ever-restless feet of one, who now 
Gathered the blossoms of her fonrth bright year; 

There played a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 
As broke the varied scene upon her sight, 
Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light; 

For I had taught her, with delighted eye. 

To gaze upon the mountains, to behold, 
With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, 

And clouds along its blue abysses rolled — 
To love the song of waters, and to hear 
The melody of winds with charmed ear." 



172 MAY- DAY. 

Beautiful was the scene of our rambles. Gentle reader, 
I would that I could exhibit to your eye the picture of 
that lovely landscape, as it is daguerreotyped on my own 
heart. Suppose you take a walk with me to the summit 
of the '^ overlooking hill." Here is afforded such a pan- 
orama of hill and dale, mountain and valley, forest and 
field, streamlet and lake, as is not often presented to the 
eye of the traveler, even in Switzerland, or far-famed 
Italy. On the north there rises a range of grand mount- 
ains, stretching away toward the east, till their dim out- 
lines are lost in the distance. The morning sunbeam is 
now lighting up their bleak summits, while night yet 
lingers among their dark ravines. Beyond is another 
range, on which hangs the blue mist that distance al- 
ways throws over mountain scenery, while still beyond is 
another, raising its snowy peaks far up toward the blue 
sky. Beyond that farther range, as the adventurous 
hunter tells us, is an unbroken forest, stretching away in 
gloomy grandeur and dreary solitude far toward the Arc- 
tic Ocean. A little to the west of that long range, you 
see a lone, white peak, gleaming bright in the morning 
sun. You might at first mistake it for a cloud on the 
verge of the horizon. There yet tarries winter in stern 
severity. Around that bleak summit oft gathers the 
wintery storm and oft the summer thunder-cloud. There 
sits old u3^]olus on a throne of granite. 

There is an interesting variety in the ever-changing 
appearance of mountain scenery. Sometimes the sum- 
mits are covered with snow, sometimes with clouds, and 
sometimes they are surrounded by a thin vail of inimita- 
ble blue. Distance ''lends enchantment to the view" — 
the asperities are smoothed — the rough appears plain — 
the precipitous cliffs and dizzy ravines are not observed. 
A nearer approach changes the scene from the beautiful 
to the sublime. I have stood on the overhanging rock at 



M A Y - D A Y . 173 

Niagara, and seen the waters tumble over the precipice, 
and listened to the deep loims of their incessant mono- 
tone, with feelings such as no pen may describe. But 
still more intense was the emotion of the sublime, when 
I stood, as I once did, on yonder distant peak, which you 
may just see on the utmost verge of the horizon, and 
found myself, though yet the summer was scarcely past, 
suddenly enveloped in a furious storm of wind and snow, 
and obliged to grope my weary way to the plain over 
rocks thrown together in the wildest confusion, and along 
the verge of dizzy precipices walling up dark ravines a 
thousand feet deep. 

Those glorious old mountains, how they stand out as 
living monuments of the power of God, and as emblems 
of his immutability ! The works of man, what are they, 
and how unequal to the task of resisting "decay's effac- 
ing fingers!" The cities of the Nile, of the Euphrates, 
of classic Greece, and of sacred Palestine, have crumbled 
away, and are leveled to the dust. But these old mount- 
ains stand, defying the storms, and even time itself. 
They, too, have a language, and their history is written 
in hieroglyphics older than those of the Nile, reaching 
back to the time when the morning stars first sang to- 
gether, and the sons of God shouted for joy. 

" 0, mountain land, how my young spirit leaps, 

After long years, to tread thy hights again, 
And with- the clouds to hang along thy steeps, 

And watch the river sweeping to the main ! 
Long years! hut not the uecromance of time 
Can dim the shapes of memory suhlime — 

Thy cliffs and waters — when with shivering breath 
I gazed through vistas of the roclsing pine, 

And saw below the silent gulf of death. 
And over me as near the realms divine." 

But you may be weary with looking on that mountain 
scenery. Let us, then, turn to another part of the land- 
scape. Here opens a view toward the sunny south. At 
15* 



174 M A Y - D A Y . 

our feet is spread out a tranquil lake. Its bright waters 
reflect the light, like a mirror of silver. Its shores are 
fringed with evergreens. The pine, the fir, the cedar, 
and the larch are growing there together, giving to the 
scene a beauteous variety, such as art may in vain hope 
to imitate. From the foot of the lake issues a small 
stream, which meanders through a quiet meadow, and 
then empties its clear waters into another lake. Beyond 
you may see a lovely vale, stretching away between the 
hills, till it spreads out into a broad plain. On that plain 
the light falls mellow and soft. The blue tinge of dis- 
tance is diffused over the whole scene. It would seem 
that there might be the "happy land where care is un- 
known." A thousand times have I looked on that lovely 
valley, and yielding up my reason to my fancy, imagined 
it some fairy-land, some region of the blest, some para- 
dise of flowery beauty, where the winds blow not, the 
storms never come, where the sunlight of spring always 
shines, and sorrow is unknown. 

But we must bid adieu to this scene of beauty. On 
the landscape we may look no more. The mountain, the 
vale, the lake, the stream, the garden, the greenwood, the 
neat village, with its white dwellings, the church, with 
its Gothic spires, and the cottage on the hill-side, with 
its shrubbery and flowers, we must leave forever. 

Yet beauty exists every-where. Our western homes 
may not aff'ord us a distant prospect. The surface of our 
country is too level for any extended views. We have no 
mountains, and few lakes. But so fertile, and so easy of 
culture is our soil, so genial our climate, and so easy is it 
to cultivate fruits, shrubbery, and flowers, that we may, 
with little expense, and no great labor, render our homes 
so beautiful, that we may have no need of depending on 
our neighbors for a beautiful prospect. I would hope, 
gentle reader, that your home is not in the crowded city, 



M A Y - D A Y . 175 

where you are hemmed in on every side by an unsightly 
mass of brick and mortar, with scarcely room on your 
premises to plant a tree or a shrub. I like not a city res- 
idence. It is said that God made the country, and man 
the town J and for my part I like the works of God much 
the best. Instead of brick, and mortar, and lumber, I 
would look on the green woods, and the verdant pastures, 
and the waving cornfields. Instead of thumping drays, 
rattling carriages, and the hum-drum of discordant voices, 
I would listen to the music of the waterfall, and the song 
of the birds. Instead of paved streets, and crowded 
sideM'alks, I would ramble along the cow-path over the 
pastures, and along the winding brook in the wild woods. 
If I must do business in the city, still let me have a 
quiet little home in some retired, suburban spot, where 
my children may have a little play-ground in the open 
air, and where I may retire at evening to commune with 
nature. 

Reader, are there children in your family? Have you 
little sons and little daughters, or little brothers and little 
sisters? If you would have them interesting in mind 
and in body, accustom them early to cultivate the love 
of the beautiful in nature. Take them out at morning 
and at evening, and let them see the glories of the sea- 
son. For their sake, make your home beautiful. Em- 
bower it with shrubbery, crown it with flowers, and orna- 
ment it with shade-trees. If your home be pleasant, your 
children will be contented with it, and will not be 
inclined to go abroad. Nothing can be more injurious to 
the moral habits of children, than the practice of run- 
ning about the neighborhood and the town for recreation 
and amusement. Let them have something at home to 
interest them, and it will be easy to keep them there. 

A home made pleasant by fruits and flowers, will pro- 
mote the cheerfulness of children. Cheerfulness is a 



176 M A Y - D A Y . 

virtue, and it should be cultivated by ourselves, and 
encouraged in our children. All nature is cheerful. The 
plants put on their beauteous colors, such as Solomon in 
all his glory could not boast. The insects are so happy 
they hardly know what to do with themselves. The 
birds sing a merry tune, all except the moping owl. Of 
all beings man should certainly be the last to be sad and 
melancholy. Most of all should the good be cheerful. 
If any should be sad, let it be the bad; for they have 
reason for it; but the good should promote cheerfulness 
in themselves, and especially in the little children in- 
trusted by Providence to their care. 

Home made pleasant by cultivated grounds promotes 
the health of children. Their nature requires exercise 
in the open air. Confine them to close rooms, restrain 
them in their play, and you do them a lasting injury. 
Entice them out into the garden, the orchai'd, the orna- 
mented yard — accustom them to run about the garden 
walks, and to perform such labor as may be suited to 
their little hands, and you will develop a healthy body 
and a sound mind. 

Familiarity with the beauties of nature has much effect 
in refining the taste and developing the mind. A child 
brought up amidst shrubbery and flowers can not well be 
coarse in manners, uncultivated in mind, and deficient in 
taste. The superiority of the ancient Greeks and Ital- 
ians over other people, was greatly owing to the influence 
of nature over them. Their country was beautiful, their 
skies serene, their climate mild. By nature they were 
initiated into the love of the beautiful, and thus were led 
to excel in literature and in art. Their beautiful mythol- 
ogy, stripped of its poetic drapery, was but a deification 
of the powers of nature. The works of nature illustrate 
the wisdom and the goodness of the Deity. The argu- 
ment for the existence, the wisdom, and the benevolence 



MAY-DAY. 177 

of God, drawn from the proofs of contrivance in nature, 
may be made perfectly intelligible to the mere child, and 
will have more effect on him than a thousand dry moral 
precepts. Then, if you would give your child an idea of 
the supreme Being, and a conception of the most inter- 
esting of his attributes, take him with you into the gar- 
den, and show him the flowers, and the marks of con- 
trivance and design they exhibit. 

We have another inducement to render, so far as pos- 
sible, the home of our children pleasant to them. We 
thereby furnish them an inexhaustible fund of delightful 
associations in after life. Home, "be it ever so homely," 
is still the sweetest word in the English language. When, 
however, there is associated with that word the idea of 
good taste and beauty, it has an inexpressible charm, that 
binds the heart, as by a spell, for all future time. I would 
not lose the word from our language — I would not lose 
the memory of it from my heart, for the wealth "of 
Ormus or of Ind." Though from the home of my child- 
hood my friends are all gone, though the stranger's foot 
is on the threshold, and I hear no familiar voice, and see 
no familiar face within the halls, yet my heart often 
instinctively turns to the spot. My reveries by day and 
my dreams by night carry me back to the play-ground 
of my childhood's sunny days. Dear to my heart is the 
little brook that flowed by the door, the lone old apple- 
tree that grew in the field, and even the rough granite 
rock that lay poised on the hill-side. While thus memory 
points me back to youth, a faculty of mind, for which we 
have no name in our language, points me on to age, and 
I see my own children, then grown to maturity and scat- 
tered over the prairies of the west, turning back their 
thoughts to the little white cottage, the spring in the 
locust grove, the thicket of evergreens, the trellis of 
vines, and the bower of roses. 



178 SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW. 



SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW. 

I DO not wonder at the philosoptier who doubted the 
reality of material existences. Indeed, the material 
world is only a world of shadows, of unsubstantial phan- 
tasms, of transitory appearances. Sensuous objects flit 
before us, and are gone. The form, the organization of 
the object changes, and its very individuality vanishes. 
And when once the material organization has passed the 
crisis in any stages of its existence, return to its former 
position is impossible. 

So rapid are the changes of material nature, that it is 
doubtful whether we ever see the same object twice of 
the same form and substance. The landscapes familiar 
to us, the home of our childhood or of mature years, 
slowly yet surely change, as day succeeds day, and year 
follows year. The changes so gradual may not be ob- 
served while we are incessantly looking on the scene ; 
but returning after a few years, or even a few days of ab- 
sence, we shall find the changes really perceptible. 

The child that grows up by our side passes through 
changes which, from our constant intercourse, we rarely 
appreciate, till a period of separation makes us sensible 
of the sure and unerring effects of time. Not alone the 
corporeal form, but those qualities of mind which consti- 
tute individuality of character, are affected, often radi- 
cally, in the course of a few years. 

Never in the history of nature or of man has there 
been any restoration of things, when once changed, to 
precisely their former condition. Successive have been 
the changes on the surface of earth since in the begin- 
ning God created it; but no two geological periods 



SUBSTANCE AND SHADOAV. 179 

have been the same, if, indeed, they have been in any 
respect similar, in no two periods of human history 
have the same circumstances existed, or the same events 
transpired. No two men have been produced precisely 
alike. The world has seen but one Moses, one Solomon, 
and one Paul; one Alexander, one Cccsar, and one Na- 
poleon ; one Homer, one Bacon, and one Newton. 

The most evanescent and transitory appearances of 
nature are but emblems of the rapid mutations of the 
most enduring works of man. The magnificent cities, 
the gorgeous temples, and the elegant palaces of anti- 
quity have wholly disappeared from human vision. The 
empires, the kingdoms, the political institutions, the re- 
ligious organizations, have all ceased to exist in any sub- 
stantial form. They have passed away, cities, kingdoms, 
and all, like the vapory creations of sunset. 

The forms of visible things are often preserved long 
after the original object has disappeared, by the skill of 
the sculptor or the painter ; yet the marble is not imper- 
ishable, nor may the colors on the canvas always retain 
their truthfulness to nature. The statue and the picture 
may, therefore, finally prove as unsubstantial as the forms 
whose image they were designed to perpetuate. 

The ideal world is really the world of substance. 
Spirit forms alone retain forever unchanged their origi- 
nal impress. The conceptual existences of mind are 
immortal and changeless. The conception once enter- 
tained by the mind of a beautiful object, a landscape, 
or a ''human face divine," becomes an imperishable and 
inalienable picture in the gallery of intellect. The ideas 
suggested to the mind by external objects of perception, 
by reading, or by reflection, become real, indestructible 
existences, subject to none of the changes and accidents 
which befall material objects. There may be oblivion, 
but there is no obliteration of knowledge. And the 



180 SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW. 

reign of oblivion is only temporary. The surges of her 
waters may fill up imprints made in the sand, but can 
not erase thought traced and graven in the imperishable 
tablet of mind. Forms of beauty once conceived in the 
mind become changeless. Images of loveliness once 
daguerreotyped on the soul become effaceless. 

What a glorious gallery of lovely pictures may the ob- 
servant mind in one short life collect; pictures of natural 
beauty, of thousand-tinted flowers, of green hills, of fair 
vales, of smiling plains, of brooks winding amid verdure, 
of lakes embowered amid grand mountains, all forming a 
landscape more beautiful than fairy ever saw or poet ever 
dreamed ; pictures of moral beauty, scenes of magnanim- 
ity, of virtue, and of goodness; conceptions of the beau- 
tiful, the gi'and, the sublime, with all of pure and inde- 
structible thought, accumulated through life ! All these 
conceptual images we may classify, distribute, and ar- 
range so as to form for ourselves a world of beauty in 
which we may forever luxuriate. 

The treasures of thought laid up in the impregnable 
storehouse of mind remain secure from stratagem or rav- 
age. Into that treasury thieves may not break. From it 
they may not steal. Men may take from me all of exter- 
nal I have — my property, my liberty, my life ; but they 
can not take from me the acquisitions of knowledge. 
They have neither key to unlock the storehouse, nor force 
to demolish it, nor power to drag thence the possessions. 

Rich, surpassing rich is he, whose is the ideal world, 
the world of conception, the world of thought. All of 
beauty and of good, all of present and of past, is his. 
He ranges over earth; he ransacks the old and dilapi- 
dated repositories of the past ; he collects all of thought 
from the archives of hvimanity; he constructs a world of 
his own, and furnishes it with the choicest products of 
nature and of art. Within the precincts of that world 



SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW. 181 

there is no decay, no change ; there is only accumulation, 
as thought after thought is added to his possessions. 
Not, then, in the external, but in the spiritual world, the 
world of conception, of thought, must we look for reality, 
for substance. All else is shadow. 

16 



182 LITTLE EOSA. 



LITTLE ROSA. 

Do you remember, little Rosa, the evening wlien first 
we met — tlie pleasant summer evening, when at twilight 
you stood with your youthful, widowed mother before our 
cottage door, having come a long journey of a thousand 
miles? Do you remember, Rosa, the garden, the or- 
chard, the grove, the brook, and the bower, and how you 
rambled with me, your little hand clasped in mine, along 
the flowery walks of our western home ? Do you remem- 
ber how, after you had returned to your Atlantic home, I 
went to visit you with cousin Ellen, and you, meeting me 
at the gate, threw your arms around my neck, and in the 
ecstasy of joy could only exclaim, in infant accents, "My 
father!" Alas, poor child! he whom God had given you 
for a father by nature, had been, from your earliest in- 
fancy, sleeping in the church-yard, and you seemed to 
feel an instinctive desire for one on whom your young 
heart could rely. 

Do you remember the pleasant day we spent on the 
Atlantic beach, looking at the ships, picking shells, and 
running before the surf? Do you remember the hour 
of parting, when pressing you long to my heart, with 
tearful eye I looked what I could not speak, farewell, and 
turned away toward my distant home. 

Little Rosa, shall I ever see thee again? I can not 
cease to grieve for thy absence. Slowly and sadly passed 
the autumn by. Winter came, and again passed away. 
Spring, with its budding beauty, its fair flowers, and its 
music of birds, came, and went again. Summer came, 
and is gone. Autumn came again, and strewed the 



LITTLE ROSA. 183 

walks of Rosabower with fallen leaves. Yet thou, Rosa, 
returnest not to me. Wilt thou come again, sweet child, 
to my home — come to my heart? Come, and in spring 
we will roam together the woods, and pick the anemone 
as it peeps out from under the fallen leaf. We will re- 
cline upon the lawn, beneath the pine which we planted, 
and gather the early violets. We will follow the little 
brook along the valley, and listen to the birds singing on 
the willow-trees. In summer we will sit beneath the shade 
of the old beech at the bower, enjoying the fragrance of 
the rose and the lily, and breathing the bland zephyr. 
In autumn we will gather the fruits of the orchard, lux- 
uriating amidst pears and peaches, and apples and grapes. 
When winter comes, with his frosts and his snows, we 
will heap on the wood in the old fire-place, and before 
the blazing fire pass the long, cold evening, defying the 
peltings of the storm. 

Come, Rosa, and we will welcome you to our home in 
the west — to our clear skies and bland atmosphere. 
Come and live among our grand old forests, and look on 
our illimitable prairies, and drink our pure and cool 
streams. Come, and go with us on the quiet Sabbath to 
our beautiful village church, whose sweet-toned bell calls 
us at the hour of worship to our devotions. Come, and 
with your little cousins pursue the path of knowledge, 
gathering along the way flowers fairer than the spring 
violets or summer roses. Come, and be my child, since 
she, whose name you bear, can return to me no more. 

Alas, Rosa ! hard seems the lot that separates us. I 
greatly fear thou art to me lost forever. With passing 
years thy beauteous features are changing ; and should I, 
after a long time, again see thee, I might not, in thy ma- 
ture countenance, recognize the lovely image of child- 
hood, daguerreotyped on my heart. Thy heart, too, 
E.osa, may be changed. The outgushing fountain of 



184 LITTLE ROSA. 

childlike love may become the deep and stately current 
of mature affection, directed in a channel far away from 
my secluded heart. Thy pure love may then be to me 
among the things that were, but never can be again. 
Long is the distance that now separates us. Between 
us mighty rivers flow, and lofty mountains rise, and great 
lakes extend their watery domain. And I may never see 
thee more. So, little E-osa, with deep regret must I give 
thee up. Farewell, my Rosa, beauteous child, lovely one, 
farewell ! 



THE HEAVENS. 185 



THE HEAYENS. 

How glorious must have appeared the nocturnal sky to 
the Chaldean philosophers and the dwellers along the 
Nile ! In the pure atmosphere and clear sky of the 
plains the stars shone out bright from the concave firma- 
ment, seeming like a thousand lamps hung on high. 
The diurnal motions of the stars could not escape the 
notice of the observer for a single night. When the sun 
had disappeared, he saw myriads of lights scattered over 
all the heavens. Of those in the eastern horizon, in the 
zenith, and in the west, he could but remark the motions 
even in a single hour's observation. Those in the east 
would ascend by regular movements, those in the zenith 
would descend, and those in the west would set. The 
Chaldean shepherd, as he watched his flocks during the 
summer night, would observe, as the hours passed away, 
stars continually rising one after another, and following 
each other over the firmament. When he looked toward 
the north he would observe a variant phenomenon. The 
star at the pole would appear stationary, and all in its 
neighborhood revolving in circular orbits about it. 

The observer would naturally search for the cause 
of these appearances. He would easily perceive that 
the diurnal motion of the stars might be real or only 
apparent. If the earth be motionless, then the stars 
move. If, however, the earth revolve on its axis, then 
the motion of the stars is only apparent, their rising and 
setting being caused by the revolving earth interposing 
its rotund surface between the star and the observer. 
16* 



186 THE HEAVENS. 

The observer could not long fail to remark the un- 
changing relations which most of the stars retain among 
themselves. Certain clusters, occupying definite relative 
positions, retain those positions night after night, week 
after week, month after month, and year after year. The 
individual stars, forming these clusters, seemed asso- 
ciated permanently together. These clusters they desig- 
nated constellations. Names were early given the con- 
stellations — names either of persons or animals, founded 
on some fancied resemblance of shape or some story of 
mythology. At what time the constellations first received 
names is unknowp- Homer, who lived about one thou- 
sand years before Christ, mentions the constellations Ple- 
iades, Hyades, Bootes, Arcturus, and Orion. Hesiod, 
who lived near the time of Homer, mentions the same, 
with the addition of Sirius. 

But neither Homer nor Hesiod mentions planets dis- 
tinct from stars; nor is it known at what precise time 
the planets were distinguished and named; yet the dif- 
ference between them and the stars must have been 
early observed. The stars maintain, year after year, pre- 
cisely the same place among themselves, and the same 
with respect to the sun and the earth. But the planets 
were observed to change often their position relative 
among themselves, and relative to the sun and the earth. 

Pythagoras had some conception of the revolution of 
the planets about the sun, and a tolerably correct idea of 
the various distances of the several planets from the sun. 
He fancied he saw some analogy between the distances 
of the bodies of the solar system from each other and 
the divisions of the octave in music. He supposed that 
the planets in their motions about the sun caused musical 
vibrations, and the sounds, owing to their regular inter- 
vals combining in harmony, formed the music of the 
spheres. A passage in the book of Job seems to recog- 



THE HEAVENS. 187 

Dize this idea: "The morning stars sang together." In 
that music what powerful bass must be made by Jupiter 
rushing through space, while Venus would pour fourth 
her delicate and melodious tones ! 

What an hour of deep and strange interest was that, 
when Gallileo, receiving a hint from a spectacle-maker, 
had, with much ingenuity and labor, contrived the won- 
derful telescope, which has aflFected such a revolution in 
modern science ! "When he had completed his instru- 
ment, he turned it toward the heavens, and pointed it at 
the planet Jupiter. To his astonishment, he discovered 
what had never before been suspected— four moons ac- 
companying the planet, as our moon accompanies the 
earth. He looked at Saturn, and saw encircling the 
planet enormous rings, whose nature or purpose he could 
not determine. He looked at Venus, and perceived that 
she suffers changes of phase precisely as does our moon. 
He looked at the moon, and discovered on her surface 
prodigious mountains, dizzy precipices, and fathomless 
ravines. He looked at the sun, and saw on its surface 
dark spots, from whose changing position he inferred the 
rotary motion of the orb of day himself. Similar obser- 
vations soon proved the diurnal motion of Jupiter and Mars. 

Wonderful have been the triumphs of science in meas- 
uring the distances of the heavenly bodies. The exact 
distance of any planet, whose plane is within twenty mill- 
ions of millions of miles from the sun, may be, by well- 
known mathematical rules, easily calculated. But there 
are bodies in the heavens at distances so immense, that 
no certain means of computation have ever been dis- 
covered; yet enough is known to prove that the nearest 
of the fixed stars must be so distant as to require more 
than three years for light, though traveling nearly two 
hundred thousand miles in a second, to reach us from 
their surface. Indeed, by observations lately made, it is 



188 THE HEAVENS. 

rendered probable that from no star does liglit reacli the 
earth in less than nine years. By similar observations it 
is inferred that the polar star, the star better known than 
any other in the heavens — the star that for ages has 
guided the sailor over the deep — is so far from the earth as 
to require twenty years for light to pass from its surface 
to the human eye. Let, therefore, at this moment, that 
glorious star be struck from the heavens, and its light 
would still stream on for twenty years. 

The number of stars is inconceivable, The number 
visible in both the north and south hemispheres with a 
good telescope is computed at five and a half millions. 
Yet every one is supposed to be a sun, as large as our 
sun, and may have a planetary system moving about it. 
And these bodies are all in motion. The moons move 
around their primary planets; the primary planets of 
each solar system move around their sun ; and the sys- 
tem, our sun with its attendant planets, and the five and 
a half millions of other suns with their planets, are mov- 
ing round a great common center in the heavens. A dis- 
tinguished astronomer supposes he has discovered that 
center, near the Pleiades, around which our system is 
moving at such a rate as to make one revolution in eigh- 
teen millions of years, and other systems in other times, 
but all in regularity, order, and harmony. Omnipotent 
far beyond human conception is He who, from nothing, 
created this sun, these planets, and this innumerable host 
of stars, each itself another sun with its attendant plan- 
ets. As yet we are far from having explored the utmost 
depths of space. Our telescopes have only reached a 
limited distance into the regions of the heavens. There 
lies a depth beyond the lowest depth, a hight above the 
utmost hight, and a length beyond the greatest length 
yet reached by human eye or philosophic glass. There 
may lie as many stars, as many suns, as many solar sys- 



THE HEAVENS. 189 

terns, without as within the range of the most powerful 
telescopes yet invented. To space there is no bounds. 
And space seems full of the handiwork of the Almighty. 
Omniscient, as well as omnipotent, must be lie who hath 
given all these bodies their orbits in the heavens, and 
who, from age to age, regulates their motions and pre- 
vents collisions. In our system, one sun, nineteen plan- 
ets, counting the newly-discovered asteriods, at least 
twenty moons, and an unknown multitude of comets, 
have been, for many thousand years, moving in the heav- 
ens, each subject to attractions and disturbances from all 
the others, and yet no collision has ever occurred. The 
millions of stars, so far as we can discover, pursue their 
way eternally in the heavens without interference or col- 
lision. Wise is the mind, and strong the hand, to con- 
trol and regulate so many immense and rapidly-moving 
bodies. 

It is impossible now to conceive how widely the sphere 
of human knowledge may yet be extended in the heav- 
ens. Wonderful were the revelations made by the tele- 
scope of Gallileo, imperfect as was its construction. Sir 
William Herschel constructed with his own hands a tele- 
scope much superior to that of Gallileo, and immediately 
therewith discovered a new planet, new satellites, and 
innumerable new stars. The Earl of Rosse has lately 
constructed one far superior to that of Herschel. By it 
the most wonderful sidereal pictures are afforded. Spots 
in the heavens, appearing in common instruments only 
light, misty clouds, are resolved by this telescope into 
distinct, beautiful, magnificent stars. 

There is no probability that human ingenuity is yet 
exhausted, or that science has reached its terminus. 
Other telescopes of higher power may yet be contrived, 
and other observers may detect new planets and new 
stars. Our amount of knowledge respecting those parts 



190 THE HEAVENS. 

of our own solar system already discovered may be vastly 
increased, and our view into the depths of space may be 
greatly extended. While we see on the surface of the 
planets only lofty mountains and dark ravines, others, 
with better instruments, may see green trees, and waving 
harvests, and cities with towers and steeples, and living 
men. 

Would you like to visit these planets, and suns, and 
stars — these monuments of the glory and the handiwork 
of the Almighty? Conveyance may now be found diffi- 
cult, and all known means of locomotion entirely too 
slow. It would require the rail-car, at its utmost speed, 
five hundred years to reach the sun, twenty-five hundred 
to reach Jupiter, four thousand, seven hundred and fifty 
to reach Saturn, nine thousand, five hundred to reach 
Uranus, fifteen thousand to reach Neptune, seventy mill- 
ions to reach the nearest star, and four hundred millions 
to reach the polar star. 

Take, then, the wings of the morning, mount a sun- 
beam, and away on your adventurous journey. You 
would even then be eight minutes in reaching the sun, 
forty in reaching Jupiter, one hour and a quarter in 
reaching Saturn, two and a half hours in reaching Ura- 
nus, and four hours in reaching Neptune. Should you 
venture to the stars on a beam of light, your journey 
would be in going to the nearest three and a quarter 
years, to the polar star twenty years, and to Alcyone, the 
central star of the beautiful Pleiades, five hundred and 
thirty-seven years. If therefore, in your future state of 
spiritual existence, ye are disposed to visit and explore 
the works of God, ye need never feel want of employ- 
ment — ye need never have occasion, as did the conqueror 
of earth, to sit down and weep over the lack of more 
worlds to visit, more wonders to admire, and more glo- 
rious exhibitions of Divine power and wisdom to observe. 



THE MINIATURE. 191 



THE MINIATURE. 

Before me lies a daguerreian group of three little 
girls, of beauteous feature, and childlike drapery. The 
picture has faded some little in color, but the outline is 
yet perfect, presenting the little angel-band just as it 
appeared, years ago, gathered about the cheerful fireside. 
The pictured group alone remains, the living originals 
being scattered to distant homes. On looking on the pic- 
ture, I am deeply impressed with the changes which a 
few years have eflfected in the form and features of the 
beauteous sisterhood, who used to sing so merrily about 
their home. Day by day, and hour by hour, have the 
features of childhood been yielding to replacement by 
those of maturity. There is now on that serious counte- 
nance hardly a trace of the merry and careless gladsome- 
ness of childhood. The mind is changed not less than 
the feature. The feelings, the taste, the opinions, are 
all modified, and more or less changed. Not even the 
features of the countenance, nor the afi"ections of the 
mind, remain constant. It is vain to expect the tastes 
and the sentiments of childhood to be reproduced in ma- 
turity. Each period of life — childhood, youth, maturity, 
and age — has its own resources of pleasure, and its own 
chosen associates; nor usually do the same persons prove 
spirits congenial with us through more than one period 
of life. The memory of early friendships may never be 
lost. But often the continuance of our partiality is owing 
only to the pleasant associations of childhood's remem- 
brances. Permanent and unchanging congeniality can 



192 THE MINIATURE. 

only be secured by continued familiar intercourse, and 
similarity of mental direction, and moral cultivation. 

On meeting, after a separation of years, with a friend 
of childhood, we are often grieved and disappointed at 
the mutual change in our relations. We can not call 
back the ecstasy of pleasure we reciprocally enjoyed in 
our early intercourse. We are changed, and we are con- 
scious of the change. The change is affected by a law 
of nature, a law including in its folds the physical and 
the moral constitution. 

The only method of securing ourselves against disap- 
pointment, is to bring ourselves constantly nearer the 
great standard of moral perfection and holy love, on 
which the eye of the soul should be always fixed. Only 
by becoming every day better and better, and by approach- 
ing nearer and nearer the standard of human excellence, 
may we hope to preserve the relations of congeniality, 
which often spring up between the ingenuous and pure- 
minded. 

There have been, perhaps, those among us, whose souls 
seemed born in the same mold as our own. God some- 
times gives us, to cheer us for a while on the pathway of 
life, some companion, of peculiar congeniality with our- 
selves; some angel visitor, in human form, appears, walks 
gently by our side, becomes the sharer of our joys and 
sorrows, reciprocates our love, and thoroughly understands 
and comprehends us. The soul is satisfied, and we are 
happy. 

A sad change comes over us. The congenial being is 
called away to another sphere, and we are left again alone. 
Like old Jacob, when bereaved, or Rachel mourning for 
her children, we refuse to be comforted. Despairing of 
earth, we look forward in hope of reunion, in a better 
world, with the loved one of the heart gone before us to 
the spirit-land. That hope of reunion, and of a renewal 



THE MINIATURE. 193 

of happy intercourse, can only be realized by our inces- 
sant striving for the good and the true. And even 
though we labor diligently for improvement in moral 
goodness, the earlier saved may become far in advance of 
us, and, though younger in years, yet greatly our superior 
in goodness. Then, if the gentle and lovely one whom 
Providence sent, 

" More than all things else, to love us," 
has been early removed from us to heaven, we must, in 
hope of a happy reunion, strive for great proficiency in 
moral goodness, that, when we meet again, there may not 
be found great disparity in our moral tastes. 

17 



194 THE POETS OF THE W]|>ST. 



THE POETS OF THE WEST 

Though few volumes of poetry have been published 
by writers residing west of the Alleghany Mountains, 
yet there is scattered, through newspapers and maga- 
zines, every year, a sufi&cient amount of first-rate poetry 
by western writers to make a volume of respectable 
size. Some of our female writers have produced stanzas 
equal, in beauty of conception and harmony of measure, 
to any thing I have ever read in the English language. 

Few, if any of our writers, whose productions have 
never been collected in a volume, have written more or 
better than Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton. Her poems are found 
in various papers and magg^zines, and exhibit extraordi- 
nary talent and taste. Her history, though brief, is one 
of interest. She is a child of the west. She was born 
in Newport, Kentucky, on the banks of the Ohio, near 
Cincinnati. When she was yet a mere infant, some two 
or three years old, her father, with his family, removed 
into the interior of Jennings county, Indiana, and settled 
in the wild woods. 

There are in Indiana beautiful and lovely spots — groves 
delightful as those of Arcadia, vales delicious as Tempe, 
and fields fair as that 

" Of Enna, where Proserpina, gathering flowers. 
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
Was carried oS." 

But no such groves, nor vales, nor fields were found in 
that remote and cheerless region, where little Sarah T. 
Barrett spent the days of childhood. There were no 
hills and vales, and few running brooks. Beyond the 



THE POETS OF THE WEST, 195 

cleared opening of licr father's farm, there stretched 
away on every side an expanse of flat beech woods. The 
nearest neighbor was three miles distant, and the next 
nearest, six miles. To provide for his family, the father 
toiled on from day to day, clearing the land, sowing the 
seed, and reaping the harvest. The mother, within the 
rude walls of the log-cabin, incessant plied her industri- 
ous hands, in preparing for the use of her family the ma- 
terials of food and of clothing which the father had pro- 
vided. The children, as soon as they could handle the 
lightest implements of labor, were employed in assisting 
the father and the mother in whatever department their 
services might be available. 

There would not seem much poetry in such a place and 
such a life; yet little Sarah, before she had attained her 
ninth year, and while as yet she knew not one letter of 
the alphabet, had actually composed a poem, which she 
used to sing, alone in the woods, to a tune of her own 
making. The circumstances under which she composed 
her first poem are curious. There came along one of 
those primitive preachers, who, in the order of Divine 
providence, have followed the pioneer settlers of the west 
to the most remote frontiers, and preached the Gospel in 
every neighborhood, before the first log-cabin was hardly 
roofed. He was a man of tall and commanding form, 
and of powerful yet melodious voice. To the small con- 
gregation of settlers gathered in the woods from far and 
near, he spoke with as much zeal, and, perhaps, as much 
eloquence, as did Massillon before the court of France, 
or Whitefield to the thousands at Moorfields. His theme 
was the judgment. He depicted the magnificent and 
awful scenes of the last day. Among the auditors sat 
enchained and spell-bound the little Sarah T. Barrett. To 
the measured and melodious tones of the preacher's voice 
her own ear vibrated in harmony. The scenes of awful 



196 THE POETS OP THE WEST. 

grandeur, of terrific sublimity, so vividly portrayed, 
aroused in her soul, from its unconscious state, the spirit 
of Poetry. On leaving the place, she retired to a seques- 
tered retreat of the forest, and wove the rude descrip- 
tions of the preacher into melodious verse. So soon as 
she learned the letters of the alphabet, her first literary 
exercise was the writing down of her poem in large cap- 
itals. It is a pity the copy was not preserved. It would 
doubtless be a curiosity now even to herself. 

Though Mr. Barrett had probably little, if any, con- 
ception of the value of the rare gem that sparkled among 
his household jewels, yet was he not indiflferent to the 
education of his children. For the purpose, therefore, 
of aifording access to the means of instruction, he re- 
moved, when Sarah was nine years old, to Madison. No 
sooner had he become settled at Madison, than he pro- 
cured for his children such advantages for education as 
the place afforded. The school which Sarah attended 
was at North Madison, on the hill near the upper ter- 
minus of the inclined plane of the Madison and Indianapo- 
lis railroad. To reach the school-house she had to clam- 
ber daily up the hill, and, when the school hours expired, 
return to her home by the river-side. But to a child 
such as she, of vigorous health, buoyant spirit, and poetic 
fancy, a daily ramble over the Ohio hills was far from 
being disadvantageous. The physical exercises added 
strength to her constitution, and the romantic scenery 
nourished the genius of Poesy, which the itinerant 
preacher's description of the last day had aroused in her 
soul. 

During her early school-days she wrote several little 
poems, which Colonel Arion, a gentleman of whom she 
ever speaks in the kindest terms, was pleased to publish 
and to praise in his paper. While yet a young girl, she 
b«came known, through her poetic effusions, to Mr, 



THE POETS OP THE WEST. 197 

Nathaniel Bolton, a printer, who was then publishing a 
paper at Madison. Mr. Bolton first solicited from the 
youthful and talented fair one her poetical contributions 
for his paper, and after that, as any man of taste might 
reasonably and naturally have done, he solicited her 
hand. 

During the disastrous storm that swept over the busi- 
ness community in 1837 and 1838, the financial interests 
of Mr. Bolton were nearly wrecked. To extricate him- 
self from his difficulties, he opened a tavern on his farm, 
a short distance west of the city of Indianapolis. Mrs. 
Bolton, then scarcely seventeen years old, found herself 
incumbered with the care of a large dairy and a public 
house. To aid as much as possible in relieving her hus- 
band from embarrassment, she dispensed with help, and 
with her own hands, often for weeks and for months, per- 
formed all the labor of the establishment. Thus for 
nearly ten years this child of genius, to whose spirit song 
was as natural as to the bird of the green wood, cheer- 
fully resigned herself to incessant toil and care, in order 
that she might aid her husband in meeting the pecuniary 
obligations which honesty or honor might impose. 

During these long and dreary years of toil and self- 
denial she wrote little or nothing. At last the crisis 
was reached, the work was accomplished, the liabilities 
were liquidated, and the bird, so long caged and tuneless, 
was again free to soar into the regions of song. 

The most of her poems which have come under my 
observation, have been written within the last three or 
four years. There is among them great variety of sub- 
ject and of measure. There are songs of the afi"ections, 
elegies, songs of patriotism, songs of philanthropy, and 
numerous occasional or miscellaneous poems with a wide 
scope of subject. 

From her songs of the affections we will present a few 
17* 



198 THE POETS OF THE WEST. 

stanzas, as specimens of her genius and taste. The deli- 
cacy of poetic conception, and the simplicity and beauty 
of style, in the following lines, can but be admired by 
every reader of taste : 

"THE FLOWER AND THE STARLIGHT. 

"From its home on high, to a gentle flower, 
Tliat bloomed in a lonely grove, 
The starlight came at the twilight hour, 
And whispered a tale of love. 

Then the blossom's heart, so still and cold, 

Grew warm to its silent core. 
And gave out perfume, from its inmost fold, 

It never exhaled before. 

And the blossom slept through the silent night 

In the smile of the angel ray ; 
But the morn arose, with its gairish light, 

And the soft one stole away. 

Then the zephyr wooed, as he wandered by. 

Where the gentle flowers grew. 
But she gave no heed to his plaintive sigh; 

Her heart to its love was true. ■ 

And the sunbeam came, with a lover's art, 

To caress the flower in vain; 
She folded her sweets in her thrilling heart, 

Till the starlight came again." 

The following stanzas contain poetry and philosophy in 
melodious measure : 

"Cloudlets, with their brows so fair. 
In the summer weather. 
Wandering through the fields of air. 
Meet and blend together. 

Moonlight, from its throne above,} 
In its fond devotion, f' 

Y Trembles, with a smile of love, ,' 
( O'er the mighty ocean. 

Zephyr ranges summer bowers. 

Fearless and unbidden. 
Wooing fragrance from the flowers. 

Where the dew is hidden. 



THE POETS OF THE WEST. 199 

Then the joy affection brings 

Try no more to smother; 
Taught by brightest, fairest things, 
j We should love each other." , 

Over the threshold of Mrs. Bolton's cottage the angel 
of death has never passed; at the fireside of home all of 
hers meet; at the family table no seat is vacant; the 
deep fountains of her heart have never been moved by 
the swelling tide of bereaved affection ; yet, true poet as 
she is, she has written some of the most touching elegies 
in the English language. The following lines on the 
death of William Quarles, one of the most generous and 
noble men that ever trod the soil of Indiana, are, both 
in expression and in measure, surpassingly beautiful : 

" Mournfully, mournfully toll for the dead : 
He passed from our side in his manhood's pride, 

Ere the glow of his rainbow hopes had fled ; 
When his sky was bright with meridian light, 
Death bore him away to a dreamless night; 
Mournfully toll for the dead. 

Silently, silently let him sleep on: 
From the hurry and strife of the battle of life 

A victor away to his home has gone; 
Gone, gone from the tears, from the sorrows and fears, 
That come to the heart on the tide of years: 
Silently let him sleep on. 

Hopefully, hopefully lay him to rest, 
Where the dew-bright flowers, in the long still hours. 

Will weep o'er the sod on his pulseless breast; 
Where the breeze will sigh, as it wanders by; 
Where the starlight comes from its home on high; 
Hopefully lay him to rest. 

Solemnly, solemnly bow and adore : 
An angel of light, on a pathway bright, 

Conducted his soul to the viewless shore; 
His dust from the gloom of the silent tomb, 
Shall arise again in immortal bloom: 

Solemnly bow and adore." 

From an address to a lady on the death of a darling 



200 THE POETS OF THE WEST. 

daughter I extract the following stanzas — polished and 
perfect gems ; 

" She was a radiant star, mother, 

That made thy pathway bright. 
Till a cloud passed o'er thy summer sky, 

And stole away its light. 
It stole away the light from thee, 

And hid it up on high, 
Where the fairy flowers never fade, 

And the lovely never die. 

This world was far too cold, mother, 

For such a heart as hers, 
And she left it ere her eyes were dimmed 

With sorrow's bitter tears. 
And though, around thy quiet hearth. 

She comes and sits by thee, 
Her form is far too glorious now 

For mortal eyes to see. 

Upon thine aching heart, mother, 

She lays her radiant brow ; 
But her angel touch is soft and light — 

Thou mayest not feel it now. 
She sings to thee the dear old songs 

Thy lips had taught her here. 
But her voice is all too sweet and low 

To reach a mortal ear." 

The reader will, I trust, excuse me for inserting the 
following elegy, which has appeared in a western maga- 
zine since this article was written : 

»m MEMORY OF EMMA ROSABELLE LAERABEE. 

EESPECTFULLY ADDRESSED TO HEE PARENTS. 

"Pale and silent lies your darling, 

In her little snowy shroud. 
And ye often weep beside her, 

But ye never speak aloud ; 
For there is a holy quiet, 

In the sunshine and the air, 
And ye know the white-robed angela 

Keep their sleepless vigils there. 

Never inore will dewy daisies 

Feel the pressure of her tread ; 
Never more will her slight fingers 

Cull the berries, ripe and red ; 



THE POETS OF THE WEST. 

' Never more will her sweet laughter, 
And her artless lisping words, 
Be mistakeu for the warble 
Of the joyous summer birds. 

Spring-time flowers have bloomed and perished; 

Summer moons have waxed and waned ; 
Autumn leaves have faded, fallen, 

Mournful winter winds complained, 
Since ye laid the gentle darling, 

That affection could not save. 
Very softly, very sadly. 

In the shadow of the grave. 

Still your home is very lonesome. 

In the long bright autumn days, 
"When the sun sets, blushing crimson, 

Through the Indian summer haze. 
And when dismal rains are falling, 

As the wint'ry nights come on, 
how fondly memory whispers 

Of the lovely cherub gone ! 

And ye often stop to listen 

For her footstep on the floor, 
And ye see her shadow passing 

In the sunshine by the door. 
And ye lead her through the meadow. 

By the coppice and the stream ; 
sweet phantasies — ye awaken 

But to find it all a dream. 

Where the gentle starlight watches. 

Through the balmy sunmier eves ; 
Where the violets, in their dreaming. 

Listen to their whispering leaves, 
In the dim, old, solemn forest, 

Where the night-dews softly weep, 
And the low-voiced winds keep sighing. 

Ye have laid her down to sleep. 

Yet, while other little children 

Gather pebbles by the rills. 
Laughing, dancing in the sunshine, 

And the shadow of the hills; 
While they chased the fairy hum-bird, 

Or admu-ed a meteor star. 
Little Emma has been singing. 

Where the blessed angels are. 



201 



202 THE POETS OF THE WEST. 

"Would your longing love recall her, 

To this woi-ld of care and strife? 
From the golden streets of heaven, 

To the paths of human life? 
No, be thankful that our Father 

Took her to the glorious goal, 
Ere a grief had dimmed her spirit, 

Ere a sin had stained her soul." 

Mrs. Bolton's power of description is very great. The 
following picture of the battle of Monterey is hardly 
inferior to Byron's masterly description of the battle of 
Waterloo : 

" 0, there were trembling hearts, and sighs, 

And shrieks of deep despair; 
All bloodless cheeks and tearful eyes, 

And wild confusion there. 
When first the cannon tolled death's knell 

Upon the troubled air. 

On, on they came, the free and brave; 

I saw their ranks advance. 
Their starry banners proudly wave, 

The war-steeds gayly prance. 
And all along the solid lines 

The unsheathed weapons glance. 

There was a sound that seemed to rend 

The strong old earth in twain. 
And then the battle smoke did bend 

Its wings above the plain. 
As though it strove to hide from heaven 

The gory, ghastly slain. 

Among the wounded and the dead, 

Along the crimson street, 
I heard the soldier's measured tread, 

The sound of flying feet. 
And words of bitter parting said 

By friends no more to meet." 

The description of "A Gallop on the Grand Prairie" 

makes us feel, from its peculiar measure, as if we were 

really bounding away over the plain: 

" Away, away, on our coursers fleet, 
Where the grass is green, the air is sweet, 
Where the earth and sky like lovers meet, 
On the Grand Prairie. 



THE POETS OP THE WEST. 203 

Now we are lea-ving the forest-trees, 
Flying along like the fairy breeze, 
Midst budding flowers and humming bees, 
On the Grand Prairie. 

On, on we speed ; there is naught in sight, 
But the bending sky so blue and bright. 
And the glowing, sparkling sheen of light, 
On the Grand Prairie. 

The oppressor's tread may never stain 
The glorious soil of this lovely plain. 
For Liberty holds her court and reign 

On the Graud Prairie." 

The following stanzas afford another example of meas- 

ire peculiarly appropriate to the sense. Indeed, the 

poetry of Mrs. Bolton generally is remarkable for well- 

jonstructed measure : 

" Genius is a mighty fountain, 
Gushing from a cloud-capt mountain; 
Talent is a pleasant rill, 
Winding round a sunny hill. 

Genius is forever pouring. 
Rushing, foaming, seething, roaring; 
Talent sings a pleasant lay. 
As it glides along its way. 

Genius from its wild endeavor, 
Stoppeth, resteth, never, never; 
Talent loiters oft to play 
With the rainbow on its spray." 

I can not withhold from the reader the following inim- 
itable lines, which express so truly, so beautifully, and in 
30 sweet numbers, the pleasures of the ideal : 

"Oft when the world is cold and dark, in seeming. 

When friends I loved too well have changed or flown, 
I wander far away in spirit, dreaming 

Of light and beauty in a world my own. 
In that transcendent realm, my soul's elysian, 

I hide me from misfortune's simoon blast. 
And realize hope's fondest, fairest vision. 

And live and move amid the shadowy past. 

I see again, in those bewitching trances. 

The brightest, dearest scenes of other years; 
And revel, in wild dreams and glowing fancies, 

Till I forget life's cares, and toils, and tears. 



204 THE POETS OP THE WEST. 

There are the pictured forms of loved ones sleeping; 

There are the eyes that ouce spoke love to mine ; 
And there is faithful Memory, fondly keeping 

Her vigil o'er the treasures in her shrine. 

The song of birds in dim old forest bowers, 
The murmur of the stream where first I roved, 

The music of the breeze, the breath of flowers, 
Memory hath hoarded all that childhood loved. 

The latest ray of loveliness, that lingers 

Around my devious pathway, may depart; 
But 0, forbid that Time's effacing fingers 

Should mar the sacred record on my^heart ! 

When somber clouds along my life-sky darken, 

When in the future not a star appears. 
Still let me love the past — still let me hearken 

To the sweet melodies of other years." 

Mrs. Bolton is a philanthropist — a philanthropist of 
high and holy aspirations. In her poems are exhibited 
the yearnings of a spirit thrilling with sensibility to 
human suffering, and a soul overflowing with the love of 
humanity. In illustration of her devotion to the cause 
of active benevolence, we would be glad to quote the 
whole of her poem, "Awake to Effort/' but we must con- 
tent ourselves with two stanzas : 

♦' Awake to effort while the day is shining ; 
The time to labor will not always last. 
And no regrets, repentance, nor repining 
Can bring to us again the buried past. 
The silent sands of life are falling fast; 

Time tells our busy pulses, one by one ; 
And shall our work, so needful and so vast, 
Be all completed, or but just begun, 
When twilight shadows vail life's dim, departing sun? 

The smallest bark, on life's tumultuous ocean, 

Will leave a track behind for evermore ; 
The lightest wave of influence, set in motion, 

Extends and widens to the eternal shore. 
We should be wary, then, who go before 

A myriad yet to be, and we should take 
Our bearing carefully, where breakers roar, 

And fearful tempests gather ; one mistake 
May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake." 



I 



THE POETS OP THE WEST. 205 

The inequalities in human condition, the wrongs in 
the present organization of society, and the contrast be- 
tween the noble and the peasant, are thrillingly described 
in the following poem. Let the reader also notice the 
perfection and beauty of the measure : 

"TWO SCENES. 

SCENE m A PALACE. 

"Orer the moorland the wind shrieketh drearily— 
Ice-jewels glitter on heather and thorn — 
Pale is the sunlight that flashes out fitfully, 
Over a dome where an infant is born. 

Fold silken robes round the little one carefully; 

Lay him to rest on his pillow of down ; 
Watch o'er the sleep of that scion of royalty, 

Born to inherit a scepter and crown. 

Shut out the light, that the room may be shadowy; 

Fold silken curtains around the proud bed; 
Ladies in waiting step softly and silently; 

Let not a word in a whisper be said. 

Joy in the palaces lighted so brilliantly, 

Beauty and bravery are reveling there ; 
Wine in the jewel-wrought goblet foams daintily — 

All things proclaim that the king has an heir. 

Joy in the villages — church bells ring merrily — 
Rockets are lighting the sky with their glare — 

Bonfires are crackling, cannons are thundering. 
Children are shouting, long life to the heir. 

Downtrodden millions, go join in the revelry — 

Go, in despite of fetters you wear — 
Vassals and beggars, and paupers, right joyfully 

Flutter your tatters, the throne has an heir. 

SCENE m A HOVEL. 

Over the moorland the wild wind wails mournfully — 

Ice-jewels glitter on heather and thorn — 
Pale is the sunlight that trembles out fitfully, 

Over a hut where an infant is born. 

None heeds his wailing, although it sounds pitiful. 
None shield his form from the wind, cold and wild; 

Heir to privation, scorn, misery, and poverty. 
Dark is thy pathway before thee, poor child. 

18 



206 THE POETS OP THE WEST. 

Child, -with, the spirit to live through eternity, 

Born to the yoke of the tyrant art thou ; 
Even the bread that is dealt to thee scantily, 

Thrice must be earned by the sweat of thy brow. 

Cold is the hovel, the hearth-stone is emberless — 
Creaks the old door as it moves to and fro; 

O'er the poor bed, where the mother lies shivering, 
Busily flutters the white-fingered snow. 

Pale is the cheek of the plebeian sufferer. 

Passing from poverty's vale to the grave; 
Better by far had she died in her infancy, 

Ere to the millions she added a slave. 

Yes, she is pale, and her voice sounds huskily, 

Begging in vain for a morsel of bread : 
Hush! it is over; her heart slumbers silently; 

Grim famine stands by the pale mother dead." 

In the following lines the sickness of heart, the wild 
despair, the raving insanity, and ineflfable agony of the 
ruined one, are depicted in language and in measure 
which cause the soul of the reader to thrill with intense 
emotion : 

" Above us the clouds are wild and black. 
The winds are howling on our track ; 
The shivering trees are bare and bleak, 
^ My heart is sick, and my limbs are weak. 

Wandering wearily, wearily. 

They turned me away from the rich man's door, 
Haggard and hungry, and cold and poor. 
There was feasting, laughter, and song within; 
But they turned me away, in my tatters thin, 
With thee, thou pledge of my shame and sin, 
Away, where the wind sobs drearily. 

My heart was cold, and the demons came, 
With theh- livid lips, and their eyes of flame ; 
They told me to murder thee, child of shame, 
And laughed till my brain whirled dizzily. 

They followed my path through the drifted snow, 
Taunting, and mocking, and gibbering low, 
' There is peace and rest where the cold waves flow, 
Far down o'er the white sand busily.' 

1 felt their breath on my tortured brain ; 
They tore my heart, and shrieked in vain ; 
They whispered, ' Death is the end of pain ; 



THE POETS OF THE WEST. 207 

Fly, fly to the grave's security — 
The world will turn from the hideous staiu 
That mars thy womanly purity.' 

They bade me remember the bright old time, 
My cottage home in a foreign clime, 
The friends I lost by my love and crime, 

Till smothering my soul's humanity, 
I grasped, in the strength of my deep despair. 
Thy neck, my babe — it was soft and fair. 
But the warm blood curdled and blackened there, 

To witness my wild insanity. 

How quiet, and rigid, and cold thou art! 
I lay my head on thy fainting heart. 
And kiss thy lips, with a quivering start! 

My hand! God ! let me not think of it! 
I have seen thee smile, I have felt thy breath : 
Can I feel it now? O death, pale death ! 

Thy Lethean cup, let me drink of it I 

We'll make us a bed in the snow so deep; 

The frosts with a shroud will cover us; 
The winds will lull us to a dreamless sleep. 
And the stars, in their far-oif homes, will keep 

Their beautiful night-watch over us. 
c o o o o 3 

But where is the father of that dead child, 
That sleeps where the winds wail mournfully? 

He left the woman his love beguiled — 

Is the monster loathed, contemned, reviled? 
Does the world regard him scornfully ? 

He is reveling now, where the lamps are bright; 
Where the hours go by in festive flight, 

And the gleeful song rings merrily ; 
They wish him joy, on his bridal night, 

And warm, young hearts beat cheerily. 

The bride is a creature of love and youth; 
With an eye of light, and a lip of truth, 

And a fair form molded slenderly: 
Her heart is a fountain of kindly ruth. 

That flows for the suffering tenderly. 

0, little she dreams that a wretch defamed, 
Deceived, dishonored, betrayed, ashamed. 
By the strength of the bridegroom's oath once claimed 
The love she is fondly cherishing. 



208 THE POETS OP THE WEST. 

For he is a model of manly grace, 
With the sounding name of a noble race ; 
He has power, and fame, and fair broad land, 
And there is no blood ou his jeweled hand 
To tell of the lost one perishing. 

Where the censers breathe, and the jewels shine, 
They pledge him now in the rich red wine ; 
But never, by token, or word, or sign, 

Allude to his victim's history. 
No, fill the cup to the sparkling brim, 
With life, and pleasure, and fame for him: 
The future is bright, let the past be dim, 

And wrapped in fearful mystery. 

In the penal code of this righteous world, 

Justice, I ween, is a rarity; 
At the kind, but frail, the lip is curled. 
The bitter taunt, the sarcasm hurled. 

With sure, unvarying parity; 
But over the monster mean and vile, 
Whose heart is a canker, festering guilo, 
Who kills with the light of his serpent smile, 

We throw the pure mantle of charity. 

A.nd many a heart that faints and fails. 
And many a beautiful cheek that pales. 
And eyes that weep at fictitious tales, 

Of sorrow, and wrong, and misery, 
Will turn from the pallid brow that vails 

A deeper and wilder agony." 

We do not claim for the poems of Mrs. Bolton, more 
than for other human things, perfection. The measure 
is nearly faultless, and the rhyme generally good; but 
the rhetoric of some lines and some stanzas might be im- 
proved. We, however, have no great propensity for fault- 
finding, especially where there is so much excellence. 
We could hope that she would collect, correct, and pub- 
lish in a volume her productions, now scattered through 
the columns of magazines and newspapers. It is true 
she may hereafter write more. But we know not how 
she can write any thing better than are some of the 
verses which she has committed to leaves, as frail and 
evanescent as those on which the Cumean Sibyl wrote her 



THE POETS OF THE WEST. 209 

prophecies. It is our deliberate conviction, that, of her 
scattered and fugitive productions, there might be col- 
lected a volume, which, for variety of subject, beauty of 
conception, purity of sentiment, and perfection of meas- 
ure, would be fully equal to any volume of poems yet 
published by any American writer. 

18* 



210 THE EXCELLENCE OF MIND. 



THE EXCELLENCE OF MIND 

"How fleet is a glance of the mind! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 
And the swift-winged arrows of light." 

Sitting beneath the branches of this forest tree on 
this lovely evening of early summer, my mind, quicker 
than the sunbeam now glancing by me, bounds away to 
my childhood's home, on the Atlantic shore. The old- 
fashioned mansion, with its hoary timbers, and rudely- 
carved wainscoting rises before me. The old elms are 
spreading their venerable branches over me. The pines 
that cluster on the hill-top are sending forth, on the 
evening breeze, their plaintive monotone. The lambs, 
returned with the flock from the pasture, are skipping 
on the hill-side. And there is the ocean, its surface 
spotted with white sails, and its wild waves dancing on 
the beach. Before I may have time to greet one old 
friend, or shed one tear over the past, the scene disap- 
pears, and I bound away over the mountains of the set- 
ting sun, and stand on the shores of the western ocean, 

" Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
"Save his own dashing." 

Before I am aware, I am sailing over the shoreless sea 
of Jupiter, 

" Whose huge, gigantic bulk 
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf," 

or standing on the rings of exiled Saturn, or streaming 
through space with the eccentric comet, or rambling 
among the gardens of the Pleiades, whose distance ge- 



THE EXCELLENCE OP MIND. 211 

ometry fails to estimate. And then again, gentle one, 
I am with thee, in thy city mansion, or thy prairie cot- 
tage, or thy forest cabin, communing with thee on the 
past, the present, and the future — on the ideal and the 
actual — on the beautiful, the good, and the true. 

Mind regards not time. The past is its own. It goes 
back to the beginning, "when the morning stars sang 
together, and the sons of God shouted for joy." With 
the first-born of earth, it wanders among the groves of 
Paradise. With the father of the faithful, it communes 
with the angels of olden time. With the patriarch of 
Palestine, it goes down into Egypt, and is present at 
the busy and exciting scenes, when hundred-gated Thebes 
is pouring out its countless warriors — when the Memnon 
is reared to greet the morning sun with its tones of 
music, and when the granite block of gigantic dimen- 
sions is moved from the quarry to build the pyramids. 
With the shepherds of Judea, it hears the song of the 
angels at the Savior's birth. With the wise men of the 
east, it follows the star of Bethlehem, and with the dis- 
ciple whom Jesus loved, it stands by the cross. The 
future is its own. With its eye I look on ages yet to 
come — on glorious ages of light, of knowledge, of lib- 
erty, and of religion. 

Mind regards not physical force; but by its own power 
controls all created influences. The winds, the waters, 
and the lightnings are directed by it. The strength of 
the lion and the flight of the eagle avail not against its 
power. Look at the war-horse, '' whose neck is clothed 
with thunder. He paweth in the valley, and rejoices in 
his strength. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted, 
neither turneth he back from the sword. He swalloweth 
the ground with fierceness and rage. He saith among 
the trumpets, Ha, ha, and he smelleth the battle afar ofif, 
the thunder of the captains and the shoutings ;" and yet 



212 THE EXCELLENCE OP MIND. 

he submits himself to man, and suffers the little child to 
mount him. The elephant, whose ''bones are like strong 
pieces of brass or bars of iron, "brings his incomparable 
strength to the service of man. The sea-monster, whose 
teeth are terrible round about, who "maketh the deep 
boil like a pot," and his path in the ocean shine after 
him, suffers man to " put a hook in his nose, and bore 
his jaw through with a thorn." 

Mind knows no limits to its development. The body, 
by the law of its nature, may be developed only to a cer- 
tain extent. It has its youth, and its maturity, and then 
its decline. But mind knows no old age — no decline. 
God, in his pleasure, made all things mortal, but mind. 
The earth herself may grow old and die — the hills and 
the mountains may melt away — the rivers may cease to 
flow, and the ocean be di'ied up — the very elements may 
melt with fervent heat; but mind is subject to no de- 
cay — no death. Through its endless existence, the works 
of Grod will furnish it the exhanstless means of knowl- 
edge. I know not but this is the design of the vastness 
and the profusion of the works of God. In our spiritual 
and immortal state, we may visit in person the distant 
worlds, now dimly seen by philosophic eye. We may go, 
with a speed which the sunbeam never attained, to that 
polar orb, which, perhaps, so strangely to our comprehen- 
sion, has, from the first time its light fell on our child- 
hood's eye, maintained the same place in the heavens, 
having never, like other stars, sunk to repose beneath 
the horizon. There will be time enough in eternity to 
visit all the bright worlds that have been circling the ce- 
lestial vault above us, till they have become familiar to our 
mortal eye. And then there will be time enough left to 
visit those far beyond the reach of mortal eye or philo- 
sophic glass. And no matter where the spirit may go, it 
will find a home every-where. The innumerable multi- 



THE EXCELLENCE OF MIND. 213 

tudes of worlds in the universe are but mansions in our 
heavenly Father's house. 

Mind never loses what it may have once acquired. Im- 
pressions once stamped on it become indelible. Ideas once 
acquired become, from the very constitution of mind, 
immortal as mind itself. There may seem to be, some- 
times, oblivion of the past. But it is temporary, not 
permanent. There is no lethean stream, of which we 
may drink and forget. There may seem to be loss of 
knowledge once acquired. But the loss is only apparent, 
not real. There is a power in mind by which it may call 
back every wandering idea, and renew every fading pic- 
ture, and revive in all their freshness and vigor all past 
feelings and emotions. I have somewhere read a beauti- 
ful story of the magician's mirror. Whoever looked on 
that mirror's polished surface saw again all he had ever 
seen — his early home — his childhood's play-ground — the 
hills, the valleys, and the streams of his native land — 
the friends of former years — friends long since dead, 
and buried, and forgotten. In that mirror, as the story 
goes, the Wandering Jew, who has, as the legend tells 
us, been wandering over earth for eighteen centuries, 
and who is doomed still to wander till the Savior comes 
again, desired to look. The magician held it before him. 
The wanderer saw on its magic surface all the incidents 
of his life in the long centuries past, and far behind all 
a lovely landscape reposing in quiet beauty beneath the 
Bunny skies of Palestine. There appeared a vale shaded 
by trees and watered by running brooks. A flock was 
feeding on the green grass, and beneath a palm-tree's 
shade was sleeping a child of surpassing beauty and love- 
liness. In that landscape the wanderer recognized hia 
own home of centuries ago — in that flock the sheep that 
had fed in that quiet vale under his care — in that child 



214 THE EXCELLENCE OP MIND. 

Ilis own beloved daughter, his sweet little Marian, the 
idol of his heart. 

There is such a mirror in the human soul. It needs 
no magician's wand to bring forth its power. The im- 
ages it presents may sometimes be faint and shadowy. 
Present objects flitting before it may obscure our view 
of the past. Our position may not always be such as to 
present the image distinct. But the mirror is always 
there, and occasions will come when the bright and beau- 
tiful forms of the past will flit before us.. Let the vail of 
mortality be taken from our eyes — let the busy forms of 
present objects take their places among the images of 
the past — let us look with undimmed and immortal eye 
on that mirror of the soul, and we shall see the bright 
and undying images of all our past experience. 

Tell me not of the dignity which depends on wealth, 
or station, or pomp, or circumstance. The world can not 
confer true dignity. It belongs not to externals. It be- 
longs only to mind. Tell me not of the diadem of roy- 
alty, sparkling with gems and with gold. The bright 
scintillations of human intelligence eclipse the most daz- 
zling of earth's productions. Mind alone is precious. 
Let no mention be made of coral, or of pearl, or of 
rubies, or of diamonds. Tell me not of earth's treas- 
ures. Mountains of solid gold and oceans of melted 
silver are naught compared with mind. 



SACRED ASSOCIATIONS OF PALESTINE. 215 



THE SACRED ASSOCIATIONS OF PALESTINE. 

In reading Lyncli's "Expedition to the Jordan and 
the Dead Sea/' I have been forcibly impressed with the 
unsatisfactory results of all attempts to identify the 
places of sacred associations in Palestine. Some few, 
and only a few places, may be identified. The Dead 
Sea, the Sea of Galilee, and the river Jordan of mod- 
ern geography are doubtless the same as those bearing 
the same name in ancient times. The modern city of 
Jerusalem unquestionably stands on the ruins of the 
ancient city. The general features of the country, the 
mountains, the plains, the valleys, and the larger riv- 
ers are still there, as in the days of Abraham, of Sol- 
omon, and of Jesus. But the outlines only and the 
profile of the country retain resemblance of the an- 
cient land of Palestine. The filling up of the land- 
scape has wholly changed. The lights and shades of 
the picture have commingled and changed places, till 
probably no Jew of the times of Solomon, or even of 
John the Baptist, should he, with the full exercise of his 
memory and all his intelligence, return to earth, could 
possibly identify any place, however familiar it might 
once have been to him. Nor is there any thing miracu- 
lous in the changes which have come over the physical 
appearance of the country. Precisely such changes do 
physical agencies always produce on hills and valleys 
subjected to the circumstances which are known to exist 
in Syria. The country is a region of numerous hills and 
narrow valleys. The hills, like all hills in countries of 
primitive geological formation, are mostly of rock thrown 



216 SACRED ASSOCIATIONS OP PALESTINE. 

up by volcanic influence. In ancient times these rocky 
sides and summits were covered with soil, which, sup- 
ported a heavy growth of vegetation. Gradually the 
forests disappeared by means of the ax and of raging 
fires, which often sweep with terrific fury over mountain 
regions. Whenever the roots of the trees on the sum- 
mits and the sides of the mountains decay, the soil is 
easily washed away by the rains, till there is nothing left 
but solid and naked rock. You may see this tendency 
of denudation on the summits and sides of any mount- 
ain range in America. Thus by mere natural causes the 
hills of Palestine, which were once covered with groves 
on their summits, and with gardens and pastures on their 
sides, have been reduced to mere naked, barren rocks. 
Their appearance, therefore, has wholly changed. The 
landmarks which distinguished one hill from another 
have become wholly obliterated. 

The destruction of the forests and the denudation of 
the mountains has, by exposing so much surface of rock 
to the sun, so increased the evaporation as to dry up the 
streams, which irrigated and rendered fertile the valleys. 
Sterility, therefore, in the land of Judea has taken the 
place of fruitfulness from causes sufficient to produce the 
same result in any country. Instead, therefore, of being, 
as once it was, a land flowing with milk and honey, it has 
become a land burnt, dry, and sterile, exhibiting scarcely 
more resemblance to its former self than does the grim 
and ghastly skeleton to the being of beauty and of life 
which was once associated with it. 

And what matters it, though we may not see, in the 
present decayed and ruined region, even the lineaments 
of that fair land in which dwelt the patriarchs, and the 
prophets, and the Savior? What matters it that the 
manger, in which the Virgin mother laid the infant Jesus 
to rest, is no longer distinguishable among the thousand 



SACRED ASSOCIATIONS OF PALESTINE. 217 

others in Bethlehem? What though no man living may 
designate the field in which the shepherds were watching 
their flocks, on that auspicious night in which the angels, 
with heavenly music, gave them a serenade ? What 
though the landmarks of the garden of Gethsemane be 
wholly obliterated, and even the tragic hill of Calvary be 
undistinguishable among the mountains that are "round 
about Jerusalem ?" What though even the place of the 
holy sepulcher, for whose empty possession the powers of 
Europe and Asia contended so long and so bravely, can 
not be certainly identified ? 

For me it is enough to know, that the Son of God took 
on himself the nature of man, that he died for the world, 
and that, rising again in triumph from the grave, and 
ascending on high, he ever liveth to make intercession 
for sinners. 

I would not much care to travel in Syria. I would not 
like to have tarnished by contact with the present the 
conceptual pictures of the past, painted, on the ever- 
enduring tablet of my soul, by the living pencil of divine 
inspiration. I would not have disappear, in the blazing 
radiance of a Syrian sun, the shadowy twilight that floats 
in my eye over the mountains and the vales of Palestine. 
I would not have broken the spell nor dissolved the charm 
which youthful fancy threw around the ideal of that fair 
land. Let there remain, undisfigured by random touches 
from the coarse and common pencil of modern observa- 
tion, the pristine picture, drawn by imagination, of Zion's 
hill, of the vale of Sharon, and of 

" Siloa's brook, that flowed 
Fast by the oracle of God." 

How vain is the hope of man in attempting to restore 

the past! The Jew yet lingers about the land of his 

fathers, expecting a day of restoration will yet come. 

But not to him nor to it will ever return the glory of the 

19 



218 SACRED ASSOCIATIONS OF PALESTINE. 

ancient times. His father-land is irretrievably desolate 
and utterly hopeless. Of it nothing remains but the 
skeleton. All that gave it beauty and life is gone, for- 
ever gone. 

In the physical and the moral economy of the universe 
each organization of matter and each act of mind has its 
part to perform, and then they each return through dis- 
solution to their original elements. Syria was the cradle 
of the human race. To the civilized world that country 
is now of as little use as would be the infant's cradle to 
the full-grown man. The Jews were once the chosen 
people of God — chosen and set apart for a specific pur- 
pose. The purpose being answered, they are no longer 
needed in the economy of grace. And vain are all their 
hopes of future power for themselves, or renown for their 
primeval country. 



THE SEASONS. 219 



THE SEASONS. 

How full of variety, full of instruction is the chang- 
ing year ! Each season has its own distinctive charac- 
teristics, and furnishes us its peculiar moral. Spring has 
its beauties, summer its glories ; but autumn, with its 
fruits, and winter, with its reign of snows and storms, 
suggest to the thoughtful moral reflections of grave im- 
port. Interesting as appears Nature in her delicate robe 
of spring, or in her brilliant and flowery costume of sum- 
mer, yet to most observers she seems still more beautiful 
in her autumnal shroud. Tinged with colors foreign to 
their healthy and primeval nature, the leaves, though 
beautiful still, all betoken decay. Indeed, to the elements 
of decay they seem to owe the extraordinary beauty of 
their colors. And it would seem a general rule in nature, 
that the process of dissolution should develop beauties 
unseen and loveliness unappreciated during the period of 
vigor and of growth. AVho has not been deeply impressed 
with the surprising exhibition of strange beauty in the 
face of the dying and the dead ? While looking on the 
features of the departed, often far more lovely than in 
life, we can not believe that death has really done its 
work; we suspect there must be some deception in ap- 
pearances ; we fancy the living spirit must yet animate 
the beautiful form ; we look with anxious expectation for 
the eyes again to open, for the lips to move, and for the 
sleeper to arise; we listen for the sweet sound of the 
voice to fall again, with its familiar tones, on our ear, and 
for the light footstep to echo again along the hall ; but 
these appearances are only the natural and legitimate 



220 THE SEASONS. 

results of death. They are only indications of the first 
stages of decay. The golden-tinted leaf of autumn, 
though wondrously beautiful, can never again resume the 
freshness and life of spring, nor may the unearthly love- 
liness of the youthful dead ever again give place to the 
bright and rosy hue of health. 

Winter is the season of rest. Winter as well as night 
is essential to the development of living forms. Nor 
man, nor animals, nor vegetables could well attain phys- 
ical perfection were there no night, no interception of 
sunlight, no diurnal season of rest. Winter seems less 
essential than night, yet its influence for good in the 
economy of nature is marked and efiicient. Though in a 
tropical zone vegetation may luxuriantly thrive, yet the 
demand for periods of rest, so conveniently furnished in 
temperate zones by winter, is clearly observed in the 
habits of every species of plant. The evergreen of the 
north and of the south equally sheds once a year its old 
leaves. The principal difference between an evergreen 
and a deciduous tree is found in the fact, that the ever- 
green, whether northern or tropical, retains its old foliage 
till it has manufactured and put on its new dress, while 
the deciduous lays aside its garments, and retires for its 
winter rest, and in spring arises and dresses itself in new 
robes. 

During the resting period of winter the vegetable cre- 
ation is accumulating resources, and acquiring energy 
for its summer progress ; the buds and sap are maturing. 
When the allotted period of rest shall have passed, and 
the returning influences of spring shall have penetrated 
the abode of vegetable life, and awakened the spirit from 
its sleep, and broken the spell which winter's magic wand 
had thrown over it, then shall we see the whole vegeta- 
ble world rushing forward with renewed speed on its 
career of progressive development. There is a winter in 



THE SEASONS. 221 

the affairs of men. Periods of doubt, of darkness, of 
discouragement, of disappointment, and of ill success, 
are often only the natural recurrence of the wintery sea- 
son, which may prove essential to our success. There 
often occurs a lointer season in the history of reform and 
benevolence. During this season of wintery weather, 
amidst the blasts and storms, ephemeral enterprises die. 
But those enterprises founded on the principles of true 
charity, of pure benevolence, of Christian duty, and de- 
manded by the nature of man, though they may suffer a 
temporary cessation of visible progress, or even an appar- 
ent reverse, will most surely elaborate and mature during 
the wintery season the elements of success and triumph. 
The seed of reform, of virtue, of Christian enterprise is 
endued with immortal life. Long may it be buried in 
the ground, or covered with rubbish, yet it never loses its 
vitality. In the revolutions of time it will yet come to 
the air and the light, when it will thrust deep in the 
ground its roots, and protrude through the rubbish its 
stock. You may trample down the plant, but it, 

" Crushed to earth, will rise again." 
On it may beat the pelting storm, but its power of endur- 
ance will prove exhaustless. It may be swayed to and 
fro by the rude blast of the furious winds, but it will 
again recover itself, and even acquire firmness in the 
struggle. The heaving frost may penetrate about its 
foundations, and attempt to throw it out of its place of 
lodgment, but its roots strike too deep to be reached dur- 
ing the temperate winter of indifference or the Arctic 
winter of persecution. 

There are periods of winter in human history — periods 
during which, to superficial observers, the progress of 
humanity seems retrograde. Such a period was what is 
usually called the dark ages. Dark those ages may seem 
to us, but only because we usually look on the wrong side 
19* 



222 THE SEASONS. 

of them. Dark seems sometimes the moon to usj but 
while to us, who look on one side, she appears dark, to 
other beipgs, who look on the other side, she seems 
bright and fair. Dark seems the cloud to us, when we 
look only on its earthward side; but to those on the 
mountain summit it may appear lighted up in gorgeous 
reflections. 

The dark ages were to human progress what winter is 
to vegetable development. It was the period of rest, of 
accumulation of resources, of elaboration of instrument- 
alities. It was the season of preparation of mightier, of 
better directed, and of more successful efi"ort than hu- 
manity had ever made. To that winter there succeeded 
a glorious spring, followed by a gorgeous summer, in 
whose light we of the present age, with appliances and 
privileges peculiar only to ourselves, are most luxuriously 
basking. 



THE REINTERMENT OF HOWARD. 223 



THE REINTERMENT OF HOWARD. 

From the climes of the south, where waves the flaf 
of the lone star, thej have brought back to his home all 
that to earth remains of Howard, the great, the good, the 
beloved Howard, the nation's representative, Indiana's 
favorite son. Not as he went forth from among us comes 
he back to us. He went from among us, one of whom 
nature might be proud; of form tall and manly; of eye 
beaming with philanthropy, and sparkling with the scin- 
tiriations of mind; and of voice of surpassing eloquence. 
He comes back — alas, how changed ! Prostrate is the 
form ; dimmed, forever dimmed, is the eye. Over it have 
passed the films of death, nor may we tear them thence. 
Silent, forever silent, is the voice once so powerful to 
move the people. Never again shall its deep and musical 
tones delight the listening multitude, nor answer the 
call of trusting childhood. Pulseless is the heart once 
so respondent to human sympathy. Indiana loved him 
when living, and she honors him when dead. Yet is he 
not conscious of the respect she shows him, nor does he 
listen to the lament she makes over him. Deep are his 
slumbers, unbroken by her voice of praise or regret. As 
the escort has moved along through her cities and her 
villages, and over her beautiful plains, her noble sons have 
come forth to honor him, and her fair daughters have 
shed over him many a bitter tear; yet he slumbers still. 
Her pealing bells have sent forth on the still air their 
sad tones; music has breathed her plaintive notes; the 
long procession has been formed, and the eulogy pro- 
nounced ; yet still he wakes not. Over many a hill and 



224 THE REINTERMENT OF HOWARD. 

dale familiar to him in former years, across many a ver- 
dant intervale and rapid stream, whose native beauties 
he was wont to admire, they have borne him to his own 
village, to his neighbors and friends, to his own home, to 
the wife of his bosom, and the children of his heart; 
yet still he sleeps on. 

Long has Indiana mourned him. From her prairies 
and her woodlands, and along her meandering streams, 
the wail of woe has gone up for him. From her village 
mansions and her frontier cabins the notes of sadness 
have come forth for him. 

" Her spirit yearns to bring 
Her lost one back — yearns with desire intense, 

And struggles hard to wring 
The bolts apart, and pluck the captive thence." 

But in vain. Death yields its victims back, 

"Not to the streaming eye, nor to the broken heart." 

There is no Orphean lyre, at whose sounds the unyield- 
ing powers of dissolution cease their work. There is no 
Promethean fire, by which to kindle up again the light 
that once beamed from that brilliant eye. There is no 
magic wand which may break the spell that death throws 
over all who enter its dark domain. 

Providence seems occasionally to send on earth beings 
highly gifted with lofty aspirations after something 
nobler and holier than can be found in the present con- 
dition of humanity. They are men of deep, generous 
sympathies, of lenient views of human errors and frail- 
ties, and of universal philanthropy. Such a man was 
Howard ; he had faith in man — unfaltering faith in the 
human race. He believed in progress, in movement, in 
the development of human nature. He belonged to that 
school of philosophic philanthropists who believe and 
teach that man is capable of much more enlarged civil 



THE REINTERMENT OP HOWARD. 226 

and religious freedom than he has ever yet enjoyed; that 
the race is endowed with a perfectible nature, and is 
from age to age advancing in civilization and virtue. He 
had traced the history of civilization from its origin in 
the east, through classic Greece and iron-hearted Rome, 
down along the course of modern empire, till in our own 
land human liberty seems reaching its highest condition 
of perfection. In all history he saw evidence of prog- 
ress — of the advancement of humanity in virtue and in 
happiness. In the darkest times he never despaired, nor 
lost his faith in man, nor his trust in Providence. 

He looked forward to a more glorious day of light, of 
knowledge, of liberty, and of virtue. He saw a day when 
the hand of tyranny shall be palsied, and the arm of op- 
pression broken ; when ignorance shall disappear before 
the onward march of universal education; when human 
liberty shall exist in its most perfect state; when the 
human race, regenerated, emancipated, and disinthralled, 
shall arise in its majesty and its glory, and go forth in 
its career of universal improvement. 

Happy is he who, with high and noble views of human 
philosophy, has the power of eloquence to move the peo- 
ple in favor of his principles. Few men in the west, few 
in the east, few any where, have so many elements of elo- 
quence as had Howard. His personal appearance was dig- 
nified and commanding. He stood among us as did 
Saul, the son of Kish, among the people of Palestine. 
His tall and elegant figure, his keen black eye, his large 
and well-formed features, the general expression of his 
countenance, lighted up with benevolence and hope, yet 
slightly shaded by a tinge of sad and serious thought, 
commanded at once, whenever he arose to speak, silence 
and attention. His voice was powerfully effective. Its 
deep, full, distinct, and solemn tones fell pleasant on the 
ear and melodious on the heart. His style was always 



226 THE REINTERMENT OF HOWARD. 

chaste, generally beautiful, and often sublime. He as- 
sumed in liis arguments no false positions, dealt in no 
sophistry, nor availed himself of any popular prejudice. 
He made no attempt to speak for mere effect, nor ever 
fell into the errors of most popular orators, using a style 
bordering on coarseness, and sometimes on profanity, but 
he spoke at our common public gatherings, in the court- 
house and in the woods, as if he had been addressing the 
polished Athenians in the time of Pericles, or the digni- 
fied Roman senate in the time of Cicero, or the British 
house of peers, in company with Burke, and Pitt, and 
Fox. 

I have never known any man, of any party or profes- 
sion, so deeply and universally loved, as was Howard. 
The utmost bitterness of party strife could not neutralize 
the warm affection entertained personally for him. And 
this great personal popularity was founded not merely on 
his eloquence, but on his elevated and pure character as 
a man. He was entirely above and beyond all suspicion 
of unfairness and political intrigue. He breathed a pure 
and holy atmosphere, uncontaminated by the breath of 
dishonor or distrust. 

Howard was a Christian — theoretically and practically 
a Christian. He had faith in God, ftiith in Christ, as 
well as faith in humanity. A holy influence of deep 
personal piety was shed all around him. Vice, whatever 
form it might assume, stood ever sternly rebuked in his 
presence. AVith the mildness and gentleness of spirit 
for which he was so distinguished, was united an uncom- 
promising disapproval of every thing mean, profane, or 
immoral — a disapproval which failed not to make itself 
felt and respected in whatever company there might be 
occasion for it. 

His faith in Christ failed him not in the hour of death. 
As the beautiful visions of earth faded from his material 



THE REINTERMENT OF HOWARD. 227 

eyes, tte glorious scenes of heaven seemed opening on 
the eye of the soul. He died, as the Christian would 
die, in the triumph of faith, and in the unfading hope 
of a glorious immortality. In the prime of life, in the 
utmost vigor of manhood, with his splendid mind not yet 
expanded to its full capacity, the shadows of death came 
over him. Far away from his home, from his wife, his 
children, and his friends, before he had scarcely entered 
on the work of the mission for which his country had 
sent him, he suddenly sickened and died. 

For him we must weep. It is right we should. It is 
the dictate of nature — of the nature God has given us. 
The wife weeps for her princely husband ; the children 
weep for their honored father; Indiana weeps over the 
untimely bier of her honored son. 

Take him, and bury him among you. Bury him where 
the primrose and the violet bloom in vernal beauty, where 
the rose of summer sheds its fragrance, and where the 
leaves of autumn fall to protect the spot from the cheer- 
less blast of the wintery winds. Bury him in that rural 
bower on the hill-side, within sight of his quiet cottage 
home. Bury him by the side of the "pretty child he 
loved so well," the beauteous little girl who years ago 
died suddenly, when the father was away from home. 
Bury him now by her, that child and father may sleep 
side by side. Ye need erect no costly monument, with 
labored inscription, over his grave. On a plain stone 
inscribe the name of Howard, of Indiana's Howard, and 
it shall be enough. 



228 AUTUMN. 



AUTUMN. 

Summer is gone, and Autumn is throwing hei' sober 
drapery over nature. The early frost has touched the 
maple with its crimson pencil. The leaves of the beech 
look brown. The locust-leaves are falling along the foot- 
path. The ripe and mellow apple is dropping from its 
parent branch, and the ripened corn hangs earthward 
from its stock. The summer flowers are all gone. On 
the hill, and in the valley, I find nothing of bloom, but 
the bright golden rod, and the purple aster. I miss the 
flowers that all summer have bloomed along my path, and 
shed their fragrance about my solitary study. I miss the 
summer birds, that built their nests among the trees of 
Eosabower, and sang to me morning, noon, and evening, 
in gentle and plaintive tones, chiming in harmony with 
my own emotions. The birds that passed along in spring, 
and tarried with us a day, are come back again. The 
very same little sparrow, that sung for a day on the cedar 
bush by my side, seems to have returned again on her 
southern migration. She has been north, perhaps, to 
build her nest in the evergreen bower endeared to my 
heart by the recollections of childhood. Poor bird ! she 
is alone, and the tones of her song seem unusually plaint- 
ive. Bring you tidings, sweet bird, from my native 
bower? Flows the brook by as cheerful, bloom the flow- 
ers as beautiful, shines the sun as mild, and are the firs 
as green, as in the joyous and halcyon days of yore ? 
Hast thou sung a requiem over the grave of some dear 
friend of mine — the friend of early days — the ever-true, 
and reliable, and unchanging friend — the same in age as 



AUTUMN. 229 

in youtli, the same in adversity as in prosperity, the same 
absent as present ? Is thy subdued and plaintive note, so 
congenial to my heart, designed to betokeir bereave- 
ment ? Leave me not yet, little bird. I will harm you 
not. Sing to me awhile, then go your way, trusting in 
Providence. When again you go to the north, to spend 
the summer, sing for me one song from the pine, that, 
years ago, I planted over the grave of the gentle-spirited 
and aiFectionate one, who led me by the hand in tottering 
childhood, and, by her counsel, protected my youthful 
heart from vicious influences. Pass on now, little bird, 
pass on to a milder clime; and may He, without whose 
notice no "sparrow falls," protect thee from harm! 

Sad are the remembrances which this autumn brings 
to many a heart. The summer has been beautiful, gorge- 
ously beautiful; the skies have been clear, the atmosphere 
temperate, and the fields green ; but sickness has fallen, 
like a blight, over all the west, and death has swept many 
thousands to the grave. Strange is it that the fairest 
climes should be the most fatal to human life, and the 
most bland breezes the most deadly. Who would ex- 
pect sickness and death to be floating on the mild and 
gentle zephyr that breathes so softly over the fair land- 
scapes of the west ? Yet the wail of woe has gone up 
from many a home, as one after another of the household 
has fallen a victim to the insidious destroyer. 

Autumn reminds us of the changes which time has 
wrought on objects of the dearest interest to our hearts. 
What is the lesson which the incessant changes of earth 
are designed to teach us ? Is it the design of Provi- 
dence to attract our afi'ections away from earth to heaven ? 
It may be so. How hard it is to cease to love, even after 
the object of love is removed forever away! Alas! who 
that has felt can describe the power of human affection ? 
In the buoyancy of youth, while the heart is versatile, 

20 



230 AUTUMN. 

and new objects of interest are ever presenting them- 
selves, we feel but slightly the effects of earth's changes. 
Bereavement, if it fall upon us, seldom affects us so 
deeply as in maturer life. But, when gray hairs creep 
over our temples, and the renewing powers of life and of 
the affections grow less active, we feel more keenly and 
more permanently the pain of sundering the ties that 
bind the heart to the objects of love. And it seems 
strange, too, that in mature life the memory of objects 
of endearment, that lived and died long ago, returns to 
us with saddening vividness. It is not true that time 
heals the wounds that sorrow makes in the heart; at 
least, it is not true of all. The memory of the loved 
and the lost will rush upon us in spite of all the guards 
we throw around us. Pictures of beings animate and in- 
animate will revive, even after we suppose time must 
have effaced every lineament, and dimmed every color. 
There gathers around us, at last, an oppressive accumu- 
lation of sad remembrances. The old apple-tree on the 
hill-side, beneath whose fruitful branches, in childhood, 
we played, now decayed and removed ; the grand old elm 
before the door, now fallen by the ax of some vandal 
clown ; the pine, transplanted by our own hands from the 
woods to the garden, now branchless and prostrate ; the 
evergreen bower, where, in childhood, we kneeled before 
God in solitary devotion, now swept over by fire, or occu- 
pied by a cornfield ; the house — our home in infancy — 
now torn down, and every vestige removed; the little 
brook, that meandered in wild beauty through the vale, 
now dammed and arrested, and forced to carry a noisy 
mill; these all return to the chambers of memory, and 
utter in the ear of the soul sad and mournful tones. 
There are other objects of early attachment, whose 
memory sometimes returns in age — the pet-lamb ; the 
playful kitten, the faithful dog, and the gentle horse. 



AUTUMN. 231 

But with a deeper thrill, and more overwlielmiug power, 
comes back the memory of the protectors, companions, 
and friends of the past. Say you, who were left mother- 
less in early life, does the memory of the mother fade 
away from your soul? Loved one, have you forgotten the 
little brother and the little sister, who passed, long ago as 
you can remember, to the spirit-land ? Childless one, will 
you, can you ever forget, or cease to regret, the beauteous 
beings that once clustered about your fireside, but now 
lie side by side in the church-yard ? The heart that is a 
heart, and not a stone, or a lump of metallic coin, can 
never forget the objects of affection. In the busy whirl 
of life our conceptions of the past may be invisible, even 
to ourselves; but there are occasions on which they will 
stand out bright and vivid, covering with their well- 
marked forms and proportions all the tablet of the soul. 
It can not be the design of Providence that we should 
forget objects once dear to us. Had such been his design, 
he surely would have given us a constitution of moral na- 
ture in accordance therewith. Some good is surely in- 
tended by this constitution of undying love for even the 
inanimate objects of nature, and still more for the sensi- 
tive beings ever crossing our pathway along the journey 
of life. Even the sadness and melancholy that some- 
times throw their deep and motionless shadows over the 
soul of the sensitive, are not without their benign influ- 
ences. By the sorrows of life the mind is mellowed, and 
the soul refined, and rendered more impressible by relig- 
ious influences. 



232 THE MEMORY OP AN EARLY FRIEND. 



THE MEMORY OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

Among my correspondents of olden time, was a lady, 
whose last letter was written twenty years ago this very 
day. I first became acquainted with her while I was 
teaching a small school in the interior of New England. 
I well remember the day I first passed her dwelling. A 
funeral procession was forming at the door, and there was 
borne over the threshold a little child, arrayed in its 
beauty and loveliness for the grave. I was but a youth — 
a mere boy, among strangers, friendless and alone — try- 
ing to acquire, by teaching school, the means of paying 
my own expenses for a few weeks at the academy. The 
lady, the mother of the lost child, a few days after my 
arrival, invited me to her house. Of course, I went; for 
I felt greatly the need of sympathy and kindness. In- 
deed, few know how much the young man, especially the 
student, away from home, pines for a mother's affection 
and a sister's love. I found her surrounded by wealth 
and friends, and a large family of lovely children. On 
entering her house, I was received with a welcome so 
hearty as to make me feel at once perfectly at home, and 
to win my most implicit confidence. I felt that I was 
captivated ; for such a woman could wield over me an 
influence irresistible. And how judiciously did she use 
that influence ! She became to nie all that a mother 
could be. She was a woman of much intelligence, of 
excellent taste, of generous sympathies, of philanthropic 
liberality, and of deep religious feeling. After my en- 
gagement at school-keeping was out, and I returned to my 
studies; she became my weekly correspondent. Her let- 



THE MEMORY OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 233 

ters would form a good-sized volume, and are worthy of 
being read, and reread again and again. From no means, 
in the whole course of my intellectual, moral, and relig- 
ious training, did I receive more aid than from her let- 
ters. 

For some two years was this correspondence regularly 
kept up; and I had, also, an opportunity, during vaca- 
tion, of spending, once or twice a year, a day or two i.n 
the family. During one of my visits — it was twenty 
summers ago — I saw on the cheek of my gentle one, 
whom I had learned to look on as a guardian angel, un- 
mistakable indications of the approach of the destroyer 
of the beauty and the bloom of New England — consump- 
tion. She seemed unconscious of danger, nor were her 
ftimily at all apprehensive of any thing in her condition 
of health requiring attention. She had taken cold, and 
was troubled with a slight cough. But I had learned to 
watch the approach of that pale specter, that had already 
summoned away from my side many a loved one. 

A few weeks were sufficient to develop the disease in 
its most fatal form ; that form, under which the patient, 
without pain and in cheerful spirits, gradually, but surely, 
descends to the grave. She soon saw the ine\atable re- 
sult, and calmly, as the child would repose in its cradle, 
ghe resigned herself to death. To us, in health, how 
Btrange seems the composure with which the Christian 
goes to the grave ! To die — to leave this beautiful world — 
to go from our home to return no more — to leave our 
children and all on earth we love — who, in health, can 
think of this with composure ? But God, in mercy to 
the human race, sends on us disease, whose great design 
seems to be to reconcile us to death. The afflictions of 
earth become thus blessings. This good woman looked 
on her journey to the spirit-world, with as much com- 
posure as she would on the journey of a day to visit somo 
20* 



234 THE MEMORY OP AN EARLY FRIEND. 

friend. She only felt interested to provide for the educa- 
tion of her children. In my last interview with her she 
expressed a hope, which she said she had long indulged, 
that, when I had finished my studies in college, my cir- 
cumstances in life might admit of my superintending the 
education of her children, the eldest of whom was then 
hut about sixteen. 

Thus died, when scarce her youth had passed away, 
one of the loveliest beings I ever saw. We buried her, 
in a spot selected by herself, beneath a vigorous old ap- 
ple-tree, in the orchard. Two of her younger children 
soon followed her, and the others came to maturity. 

Many years after her death — perhaps twelve or more — 
I stood again, on a fine autumn evening, beside her grave. 
It was one of those seasons peculiarly fruitful in reflec- 
tions. The landscape about me was one on which I would 
gladly look again. I stood on a lofty green hill, covered 
with orchard and meadow, and flocks and herds. On the 
north was the grand range of White Mountains ; on the 
south lay, spread out in the far distance, the broad and 
ever green plains of Brunswick; on the east appeared, 
just in the horizon, the blue hills of the Kennebec, 
among which lay, embowered, my own cottage home, in 
which my children were then at play. And I was stand- 
ing by the grave of one who had been my friend, when 
friends I needed, and who had been sleeping there for 
twelve years. But to me it was a consolation, which I 
can never describe, that, during that twelve years, each 
and all of her children had found, in succession, a home 
in my family, while pursuing their studies at school. My 
heart still beats quick at the memory of that estimable 
woman. Connected with her by no ties of family or kin- 
dred, my heart was won by kindness, by goodness, by vir- 
tue. I looked on her, while living, as an exemplification 
and a personification of goodness, of virtue, and of relig- 



THE MEMORY OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 235 

ion. Her own children knew her not as did I ; for they 
were too young to appreciate her worth, or estimate their 
own loss. And when she was gone from earth, I still 
continued to think of her as some guardian angel, com- 
missioned by Providence to watch over me for good. And 
now, eight years more have passed away, and in that time 
her honored husband has been laid to sleep by her side, 
and my early friends have fallen all around me, 

" Like leaves in wint'ry weather ;" 
yet still her memory is cherished in my heart, as if it 
were but yesterday I had left her at her own fireside. 
Her children are scattered far from each other, and from 
me. Her daughters are well educated, pious, happily 
settled in life, and some of them occupy important posi- 
tions. From one of them, who is said greatly to resem- 
ble her mother, I have lately received a letter, from which 
I am inclined to present the reader the following extract: 

" Years, long years have passed away, since last we 
met. Yet, of those years, not a day has passed, when I 
have not thought of you, the friend and teacher of my 
childhood, the dear friend and correspondent of my 
sainted mother, and father, kind and honored, who both 
now sleep their last sleep, quietly side by side, in that 
cherished inclosure, a few yards from the place where I 
am now writing, at that same, dear old homestead, once 
so precious by their presence, now so lonely, so desolate. 
I can not describe the tender associations connected with 
the memory of your name. Do come and see us. Come, 
and make old friends so glad. You will find change — 
change stamped on all around; but the deep affection of 
the heart is, I trust, yet fresh and green as ever." 

"All changed but the deep afi"ection of the heart !" 
Alas, it is even so ! And I have sometimes thought even 
human love, in its purest form, might change ; but per- 
haps not. AflPection, founded on goodness, on gratitude, 



236 THE MEMORY OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

and on congeniality of spirit, may survive all the changes 
of time ; but will it survive the changes from time to 
eternity ? Does that good woman, whose memory has 
brought on my soul such sweet influences every day for 
twenty years, yet regard, in her heavenly home, the child 
of earth, whom she once loved with all a mother's love ? 
It often happens, in our intercourse with human society, 
that affection, pure and fervent, arises from similarity of 
pursuits and of tastes. The vicissitudes of life separate 
us for years. We meet, after long absence, and expect a 
renewal of former joys; but, to our disappointment, one 
or both may seem changed. We have no longer the same 
mutual desires, and similar tastes, we once had. How 
will it be when friends on earth, separated long by death, 
meet in heaven? Will the loved and the lost, who were 
all the world to us, and to whom we were all the world, 
meet us in the spirit-world, with the same love they bore 
us in this life ? 



NIAGARA. 237 



NIAGARA. 

Reader, did you ever see Niagara — the indescribably- 
grand, ineffably-sublime, and overwhelming wonder of 
earth? All other sights, all other sounds, all other 
scenes of nature and of art, may disappoint your expect- 
ation by failing to equal your imagined conceptions. 
But Niagara can never be imagined till seen and heard. 
To appreciate the scene you must go and stand on the 
Table Rock, or pass up in the gallant and daring skiff to 
the misty regions near the precipice, or ramble along the 
shores of the island, listening occasionally to the deep 
tones that come up from the abyss. Those sounds can 
never, when once heard, be forgotten. They can be im- 
itated by nothing earthly. If the spheres, as the far- 
famed sage avers, .do, in their cyclic revolutions, make 
music worthy to be heard by angels, surely Niagara 
might furnish bass enough for the whole orchestra. No 
words can describe the emotions which must rise in 
your soul as you stand on the brink of that abyss, and 
look and listen on the sights and to the sounds which 
there only are seen and heard. 

The Niagara river, from the outlet of Lake Erie, near 
the city of Buffalo, to the head of the rapids, a distance 
of about twenty miles, flows on with a strong but equable 
and smooth current, between very low banks. There ia 
in the appearance of the river nothing to indicate the 
existence, within a few miles, of the most wonderful 
scene of natural sublimity on the globe. As you ap- 
proach the small village near the Falls, the rapids are 
concealed from view by a strip of forest. Leaving the 



238 NIAGARA. 

cars at the depot, and passing directly on through, a fine 
grove of oak, you arrive, after a walk of only a few rods, 
at the very brink of the chasm, below the Falls. Look- 
ing up, you see the mighty mass of waters, pouring, with 
inconceivable power and stunning sound, over the prec- 
ipice. 

Having remained for some time standing on the brink, 
and lookward on the scene, till my soul was well-nigh 
overwhelmed with repeated waves of sublime emotion, I 
proceeded down the covered staircase to the bed of the 
river. Stepping into the ferry-boat, I was carried by the 
skillful oarsman rapidly over to the Canadian shore. The 
ferry is about half a mile below the Falls, which are in 
full view as you are borne along in the boat. From the 
ferry-landing on the Canada shore there winds its devi- 
ous way up the hill a fine carriage road. As you pass 
along this road you often catch a fine view of the Falls. 
Arriving at the table-land at the top of the precipice, I 
proceeded directly up the river to the Table Rock, on the 
brink of the Falls. The greater portion of this remarka- 
ble rock had fallen into the abyss but a few days before 
my visit. I wondered it had stood so long. Twenty years 
ago I had stood on the rock, and observed the immense 
seam in the ledge becoming wider and wider by the 
action of frost, and I then called the attention of a 
friend by my side to the imminent danger of the whole 
mass overhanging the abyss falling, at no distant day, 
into the foaming waters. The event then foreseen had 
now occurred. The immense ledge, several rods in area, 
undermined by the waters beneath, dissevered by a gap- 
ing seam from the adjacent bank, and pressed by its own 
immense weight, had suddenly, with a terrific crash, tum- 
bled down. Fortunately no one was standing on it, though 
a carriage had been driven over it but a few moments be- 
fore it fell. The interest of this spot is not diminished 



NIAGARA. 239 

by the fall of the rock. There is yet left sufficient 
space to stand, and to obtain a fine, perhaps the finest, 
view that can be obtained of the Falls. On the remain- 
ing fragment of the rock I was standing within a foot 
of the precipitous cliff, and but a few feet from the fall- 
ing column of dark blue water. I was looking up the 
river at the foaming rapids. A long strip of dark clouds 
seemed pointing one end to the water and the other to 
the sky. Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, 
a most powerful current of lightning, of the most in- 
tense brilliancy, dashed from the cloud to the water, fol- 
lowed by an astounding peal of thunder. The lightning 
current passed so near as to give me a perceptible shock, 
and to send me, by an instinctive leap, farther from the 
brink. Before I could recover myself, there poured from 
the cloud incessant torrents of rain. I had seen Niagara 
under various phases — I had seen it on a clear day of au- 
tumn — I had seen it on a misty morning of spring — I 
had seen it by summer moonlight; but never had I stood 
on its brink in the midst of thunder, lightning, and tor- 
rents of rain. Such lightning, such thunder, and such a 
shower can add, if any thing can, sublimity to Niagara. 



240 GREENWOOD 



GREENWOOD. 

On a pleasant summer day I crossed over the Brook- 
lyn ferry, took a seat in the omnibus, and after a pleas- 
ant ride of a few miles, along the shores of the delightful 
bay of New York, I arrived at the large, cumbrous gate- 
way that opens from the busy world into the silent rest- 
ing-place of the dead. 

The surface of the inclosure is remarkably diversified 
by hills, valleys, small lakes, open glades, thickets of 
shrubbery, and groves of forest trees. Nearly the entire 
ground is laid out in lots, of various shapes and sizes, 
and ornamented with iron railings, and monuments, and 
statuary, according to the cultivated or the capricious tastes 
of the several owners. It would be impracticable to de- 
scribe, without resorting to a technical catalogue of 
names, the various shapes and styles of monument 
erected in that ground. There are unassuming head- 
stones, there are plain slabs, there are monuments extrav- 
agantly costly — some with beautiful and others with gro- 
tesque and fantastic designs — and there are Grecian and 
Gothic structures like moderate-sized dwellings. The 
most expensive decorations are about the grave of Char- 
lotte Canda, who died '' by a fall from a carriage on her 
seventeenth birthday." Though the exti'avagant costli- 
ness of this monument seems inappropriate and useless, 
yet we may say of its form, and of its various appenda- 
ges, what we can in truth say of very few of the monu- 
ments in Greenwood — that the design seems conceived 
and executed in good taste. 



GREENWOOD. 241 

I can hardly see the appropriateness of going back, in 
search of suitable designs for a tombstone, to the ruins 
of Egypt, and deforming the monuments of the dead 
with monstrous forms of winged globes and unsightly 
images of serpents. I can see little to choose between 
some of these images so common in Greenwood, and the 
dismal skeleton faces on the old gravestones of the Puri- 
tan church-yards. 

There are some points in Greenwood from which the 
view is splendid. There is one on the southern border 
of the cemetery, from which the ocean prospect is most 
glorious. For miles to the right and to the left, and as 
far as the eye can reach in front, you may look off on the 
blue deep, reflecting from its mirrory surface the tints of 
the overhanging sky, and whitened frequently with the 
swelling sails of numerous ships. 

The sun was setting, and I was about leaving Green- 
wood with disappointment. The effect, on the whole, was 
not pleasant. There was much effort at pomp, and show, 
and circumstance. There was too much ambition in the 
proprietors of lots to outdo each other in expense of dec- 
oration. There seemed evidence of attempts to carry the 
artificial and conventional distinctions of society beyond 
life, even to the grave. The most of the names that 
figure largely on the costly-decorated lots are not the 
names known as philanthropists, or benefactors of the 
race, or even as contributors to science and literature. 
But they are names of such as have acquired wealth by 
manufacturing " sarsaparilla," or pills," or other equally- 
interesting articles. One very tall monument bears^ in 
great capitals, the name of some one, " packing-box 
maker, at Gold-street." All these attempts to glo- 
rify, by extravagant expense and bombastic culogium 
after death, the names of those who, in life, were distin- 
guished only for acquiring wealth by some fortunate ac- 

21 



242 GREENWOOD, 

cident or artful speculation, seem to me in bad taste. Nor 
do I like the publicity of sucli cemeteries as Greenwood. 
The place is thronged with the thoughtless and the curi- 
ous. The thoroughfares are scarcely less crowded than 
Broadway or the Bowery. I would not, when I go to 
kneel and to weep over the grave of my heart's loved 
one, have a hundred idle passers-by gazing at me, and, 
by their profane presence, disturbing the sanctity of the 
place and the quiet of my meditations. No. Let my 
friends sleep, and, when life is over, let me sleep with 
them in the quiet church-yard of the rural village. 

I was about leaving Greenwood with feelings of disap- 
pointment and dissatisfaction, when my attention was 
called, by the friend who accompanied me, to a distant 
corner of the ground, wondrous thickly dotted wit-h little 
graves. On approaching the spot, I found it the public 
burial-place of little children. There were strewed side 
by side nearly a thousand graves, all of children appar- 
ently under two or three years of age, and all made 
within the last few months. The little ones sleeping in 
this unadorned spot were children of parents too poor to 
own a lot in these grounds, and too poor, except in a 
very few instances, to afford the smallest stone on which 
to inscribe the name of their lost one. But indications 
of affection, touching indications, were not wanting. 
Some of the little graves were strewed with flowers. 
The flowers were in every stage of decay, from withered 
and dry to wilted or fresh, showing that often came the 
hand of love to scatter the emblems of youth and inno- 
cence over the grave. On other graves were arranged 
the toys and playthings of the lost little one. Others 
were covered with sea-shells, gathered probably by the 
poor sailor father on foreign shores. And these little 
toys, playthings, and shells were all the poor parents and 
sisters could afford in memory of "the little boy that 



GREENWOOD. 243 

died," or the little girl that, like the dew-drop, "spar- 
kled, was exhaled, and went to heaven." These simple 
tokens of affection in the poor awoke in my heart emo- 
tions which the costly monuments of the wealthy had 
failed to excite. 



244 A RAMBLE BY THE SEA-SHORE. 



A RAMBLE BY THE SEA-SHORE. 

On a pleasant summer day, with a good, cool breeze 
blowing directly down from the White Mountains, I 
started with my friend for a sea-side ramble. We soon 
reached the coast, where the open Atlantic incessantly 
dashes against the rocky cliflFs. We clambered along 
over the precipice, and stood on the rocks that had for 
six thousand years withstood the force of the ever-return- 
ing waves. The sky was clear, and the atmosphere was 
affected only by a pleasant land breeze, yet the ocean was, 
as it ever is, unquiet and restless. Wave after wave, in 
long succession, would come rolling in, dashing against 
the rocks, and rushing into all the crevices, coves, and 
caves, bellowing and roaring with stunning and deafen- 
ing reverberations. Often we had to look out for our- 
selves, or the rock on which we stood would be sub- 
merged by some wave more daring than its predecessor, 
and we should find ourselves uncomfortably bathed. The 
grand old rocks around us seemed venerable with age and 
with hard service. Their face was furrowed, and seamed, 
and scarred in many a hard-contested battle with the sea. 
They had been worn into uncouth and fantastic forms. 
Weather-beaten, gray, and grim, they yet stand the 
impassable barrier between the domain of sea and of 
earth. How many scenes of thrilling interest have these 
same old rocks witnessed ! Often have their caves re- 
sounded with the cry of the shipwrecked mariner, and 
their sides echoed with the thunder of the cannon, as 
foe met foe in gallant ship on the neighboring waters. 
Within their full view the Enterprise and Boxer met in 



A RAMBLE BY THE SEA- SHORE. 245 

deadly conflict, in which the youthful and gallant com- 
manders of each ship fell. In the cemetery of the beau- 
tiful city, in full view from this spot, the traveler may 
observe, side by side, two graves, covered with plain 
slabs, on which are inscribed the names of the gallant 
chieftains, who fell in that sanguinary battle, and who, 
for half a century, have been sleeping as quietly together 
as though they had never handled the weapons of war- 
fare. But these old rocks heed not the cry of sailor in 
shipwreck, nor of chieftain in battle ; but they echo, 
echo, echo on to the thundering tones of the Atlantic. 

Did you ever, reader, watch the motions of the sea 
from the cliffs or the sandy beach ? The surface motion 
only you see. There is another motion invisible to you, 
an undercurrent, known only by its effects. This under- 
tow, deep and powerful, is always in a direction opposite 
to the visible motion of the surface waves. 

Like the waves of the sea are often the emotions of 
our own hearts. We are not all what we seem. There 
are undercurrents of emotion and of feeling, whose 
waves break not upon the visible shore, but roll on, deep, 
strong, and resistless, toward the invisible, the unknown, 
and the ideal. 

Having satiated ourselves with the wonders of the 
rocky point where first we commenced our observations, 
we passed on along the coast, over cliffs and rocks, and 
along precipices, and by chasms and ravines, escaping 
danger only by care and agility, till we reached a little 
sequestered cove, with a pebbly beach. It was a delight- 
ful spot, securely sheltered from the winds, and secluded 
from all human observation. The shore was covered with 
beautiful, clean, neat pebbles, polished, smooth, and fair, 
and of every variety of color. The sea, however, was 
restless even here, and its waves came rolling, rolling, 
rolling in, and breaking gently on the beach. We could 
21* 



246 A RAMBLE BY THE SEA-SHORE. 

not here resist the temptation to indulge in the luxury 
of a sea-bath. It was so quiet, so secluded, the waters 
were so cool and clear, and the beach so neat and clean, 
that we could but dally, and sport, and play, and dash 
about the waters, and suffer the surf to trip us from our 
feet, till we began to feel as amphibious as the Sandwich 
Islander. We got thoroughly salted, and carried off a 
large quantity of salt in our hair. 

Rambling on some miles farther, we came upon a long 
stretch of sandy beach. For miles the beach stretched 
away in a curved line. The sandy surface was hard and 
firm. The surf was still dashing incessantly on the 
shore, making music in perfect time, though rather mo- 
notonous. 

In our ramble along this beach we had the good for- 
tune to light on a fine deposit of beautiful shells. There 
were many varieties; some very delicate and perfect. 
We spent some hours in gathering and culling the best 
of them, and then pursued our way along the shore. Is 
it fact or fancy that the sea-shell, for years after it is 
removed from its ocean-bed, echoes in its hollow cham- 
bers to the sound of the waves ? It is a fact, and no 
fancy, that the heart of man never ceases to echo, in its 
inmost recesses, to the sound of early tones. 

Along the clean-washed beach of hard sand for many 
a mile we made our way, till we were arrested by a deep 
and broad river, which we had no means of crossing. 
Reckless had we rambled on, not knowing whither our 
way might lead. We had spent a long summer day, and 
traveled we knew not how many miles. The city we had 
left far behind. We had scarcely seen for the day, in 
our wild and wayward rambling, a living creature larger 
than a cricket. We had heard no voice, except that of 
a wild barking fox, whose territory we had invaded as we 
passed through a thicket of firs. It was now nearly 



A RAMBLE BY THE SEA-SHORE. 247 

night; and as we could go no farther along the coast^ we 
concluded to follow up the river-bank, supposing we must 
arrive somewhere. On our way we passed through a most 
splendid grove of evergreens. The deep and dark foliage 
presented a curtain impenetrable to the sunlight. The 
ground was strewed with the fallen and dry tassels of the 
pine. Occasional spots where oozing moisture from the 
hill-side slightly watered the sandy soil, were enlivened 
by a beautiful patch of green moss. In such a scene of 
sylvan beauty might I fancy the grotto of Calypso, where, 
if any where, Ulysses might have ceased to pine to see 
the ''rising smoke of his native land." 

Emerging from the forest, we stood in the open land, 
on the summit of a hill, from which was afforded a pros- 
pect, which, for extent, beauty, grandeur, and sublimity, 
excelled all I had ever seen, or of which I had ever 
dreamed. The scene was wholly unexpected. It burst 
suddenly on us. Spontaneously and simultaneously we 
raised our hands, and uttered loud exclamations of admi- 
ration. On the east and on the south stretched away in 
unbroken expanse the sea. On the west, bordering the 
ocean, extended far in the dim distance a magnificent 
plain of evergreen forest. On the north, looming up in 
the clear sunset, appeared range after range of the grand- 
est mountains on which, as it then seemed to us, human 
eye ever looked. The nearest range could not be less 
than fifty miles distant. It was darkened by the shadows 
of night. Far beyond it, gleaming in the bright evening 
sunbeam, arose another, magnificent, lofty, sublime. Its 
distance could not be less than one hundred miles. 

What a landscape was that on which to look in the 
bright sunshine of a summer evening ! It was worth a 
voyage to the moon or to the distant disk of Jupiter. 
We stood entranced at the glorious prospect, till the deep 
shadows fell on the scene, and the gathering darkness of 



248 A RAMBLE BY THE SEA-SHORE, 

night reminded us that we had rambled far from the city ; 
nor knew we where we were. Observing a cart-road not 
far from us, we struck into it, and followed it, till we ar- 
rived at a comfortable farm-house, where we were kindly 
welcomed and hospitably entertained. In the morning 
we found our way back to the city. 

Thus ended our ramble by the seaside. It was a day 
of romance — a day long to be remembered by us — a day 
bringing within our view more scenes of beauty and of 
Bublimity than any other day I ever spent. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 249 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

I KNOW not what can produce in the heart of man 
more sad emotions than a visit, after an absence of years, 
to the home of his childhood. The changes of earth 
seem not materially to affect us, when they occur gradu- 
ally before our eyes. But if we are absent for a time, 
and then return, all the mutations of men, of things, and 
of circumstances, meet us at once with overwhelming 
power. We feel as might one returned from the spirit- 
land to look again for an hour on the scenes of earth. 

About noon, of a summer day, I was approaching the 
rural neighborhood, the scene of my earliest recollec- 
tions. The first thing I saw, which awoke me from the 
reverie into which I had fallen, was a tall column of 
white marble peering up in a rural cemetery, near the 
old church where I used to worship God. The cemetery 
had been laid out and consecrated when I was a boy, and 
I recollected being present when the first interment was 
made in it — that of an old man, of whitened locks and 
decrepit form, who had for many years occupied in the 
church the same seat. I climbed over the massive wall 
that inclosed the sacred ground, to read the name on the 
white column. It was that of my first classical teacher, 
a man of letters and a man of God, one who had first 
pointed out to me the way of science, and encouraged 
me to walk therein. In the same inclosure were other 
graves, some marked by no stone, and yet I well remem- 
bered them ; for in one had been sleeping more than a 
third of a century the gentle being who first taught my 
heart to love. 



250 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Through an avenue of the dark forest, I saw the green 
hill-side that sheltered the old mansion, in which my 
youth was passed, and the vale through which flowed the 
little brook from the perennial spring, that furnished 
water for the household. Along the winding foot-path, 
up hill, down valley, and over plain, I wended my soli- 
tary way, till I stood on the spot, where once rose the 
venerable mansion, with its heavy timbers and spacious 
dimensions. But no house was there. Nothing remijined 
but the scattered stones, which once formed its founda- 
tion. Not a sound was heard but the chirping of the 
cricket beneath what had been the old hearth-stone. 
I threw down my carpet-bag on the stone, and started for 
a ramble over the hill, and plain, and valley, to see if I 
could find any familiar imprint of the past. And more 
than that, I desired, if possible, to restore for one brief 
hour the impressions of childhood — to be, if possible, a 
child again — to feel once more the joyous buoyancy of 
other days. I went to the spring near the alder brook. 
It was bubbling up, fresh and cool, from its sandy bed, 
just as it did 

" When I a child, and half afraid, 
Around its verdant margin played." 

I kneeled by its brink, and drank one long, refreshing 
draught. It seemed as if I had never tasted so cool, 
pure, and sweet water. I sauntered along by the brook 
that wound its devious way through the valley. The 
trout darted at my approach into his deep and dark re- 
treat, just as he used to do when I was accustomed to 
bait for him the cruel hook. Leaving the brook I as- 
cended to the plain, to seek out the bower of evergreens, 
under whose dark shade I had passed many a summer 
hour. The same trees were there still. The wind was 
discoursing inimitable music through the tassels of the 
same pine, that threw its waving branches over me years 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 251 

ago. The same robiu, that used to sing on the dry limb 
of ail old oak, seemed there still. The same swallow, 
that used to build its nest on the eaves of the barn, still 
flitted by me. The little mound, that the woodchuck 
had made in excavating his burrow, still remained. Tree, 
shrub, and flower — hill, vale, and plain — bird, beast, and 
insect — all appeared just as they did long ago. But 
myself — myself alone was changed. I could not be a 
child again. I tried to call up the spirit of childhood, 
but it would not come at my bidding. I would have 
drank of some lethean waters, and forgotten the sorrows 
and bereavements of life, but the cup evaded my lips. 
Wearied and sad, I lay down on a bed of leaves, beneath 
a cluster of pines, and slept, and dreamed of other days. 
I heard sweet voices, voices long since hushed in death. 
I saw the forms of the departed. A mother was bending 
over me, as I lay upon my bed, and was bathing my burn- 
ing temples. A gentle playmate was sitting by me, as we 
were conning our lesson in the old school-house. A grace- 
ful and lovely being came and walked by my side to the 
old church. And then — for dreams pay little respect to 
time or distance — I stood at the gate of my own cottage 
home, far away to the west. There ran to meet me, and 
stood with her bright eyes peeping through the fence, a 
fair and beauteous child, just 

" Gathering the blossoms of her fourth bright year." 
I opened the gate — I rushed to my long-lost child — I 
clasped her in my arms — I printed one impassioned kiss 
on her angelic brow, and then I awoke. All the beaute- 
ous forms were gone. The mother that bathed my fevered 
brow, the gentle boy that sat by my side in the school- 
room, and the graceful being that walked with me to the 
house of God, were all sleeping side by side in the old 
church-yard. And the child — I had laid her, one sum- 
mer evening, quietly to rest by my side. I had awoke 



252 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

in tlie morning, and found her sick. I had watched 
over her with intense agony all that day and the follow- 
ing night, and early the next morning I had seen her 
die ; and I had buried her in a solitary grave, in a rural 
bower, that I might protect her place of rest from the 
careless tread of the thoughtless, and the rude desecra- 
tion of the brute. 

The sun was near setting when I awoke from my 
dreamy sleep beneath the pines. I had some miles to 
travel before I could reach my temporary home in the 
city. I therefore proceeded on the shortest possible 
route. This happened to be along the railroad track. 
Between me and the city lay the railroad bridge, nearly a 
mile long, across the bay. The ears from Boston would 
be along that evening, and the bridge would be an awk- 
ward place to be overtaken by them. I supposed, how- 
ever, I had the advantage in time, and could get over 
the bridge before they came up. I had, however, got 
but about half way over, when I heard the steam horse 
ripping and rushing, and tearing and snorting, behind 
me. To return or proceed was out of the question. There 
was room enough for the train to pass me, but I did not 
like to come so near its wind. So I leaped from the 
bridge on to a telegraph post, which stood upright in the 
water, a few feet from the track, and clung there, like a 
cat frightened by dogs, till the train had dashed by me. 
The rush with which the engine passed overset all my 
notions of velocity. As soon as the train was well out 
of sight, I crawled back on to the bridge, and without 
any more hairbreadth escapes arrived safely at my lodg- 
ings. 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 253 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

To one cooped up for many long years in a small vil- 
lage, immured for a great part of each day in a small 
room, inclosed by massive brick walls, and jerked about, 
both in body and in mind, by a bell-rope, there can be 
afforded no more desirable boon than a tramp in the wild 
woods, or an adventurous excursion to some sequestered 
lake, or desolate mountain, far away from the abode and 
the track of man. 

Partly for relaxation from mental labor, and partly for 
scientific observation, I made an excursion with a com- 
pany of gentlemen to Katahden, a magnificent and soli- 
tary mountain, at the head waters of the Penobscot river. 
Our place of rendezvous was Bangor, a large and popu- 
lous town of eastern Maine, at the head of the Penob- 
scot tide-waters. From thence we proceeded on our wild 
and interesting excursion. 

AN INDIAN TOWN. 
Some twenty miles above the city of Bangor is an In- 
dian village. There, on a small, but beautiful island of 
the Penobscot river, dwells the remnant of a powerful 
tribe. The Penobscots were a branch of the great Abe- 
naquis, who once possessed all the east, and north, from 
the Saco to the Great Banks, and from the ocean to the 
St. Lawrence. Their language was said to be the finest 
on the x\merican continent. The French, who became 
acquainted with them in early times, said, that if the 
beauties of their language were known in Europe, semi 
naries would be erected to teach it. They averred that 
if such beauties were found in the ancient Egyptian or 

22 



254 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

Babylonish dialect, the learned of Europe would be at 
work to display them in a variety of shapes, and would 
ascribe superior wisdom, talents, and knowledge to the 
people whose idioms were formed with so much method 
and skill. This powerful people once possessed a country 
of more than one hundred thousand square miles. They 
now are limited to the few islands of the Penobscot. 
They once could collect thousands of brave warriors. 
They now number, when all at home, some six hundred 
souls. The early annals of New England abound in ac- 
counts of their fearful power and savage bravery, and 
the traditionary legends, yet repeated by the descendants 
of the old settlers, are still more fruitful in incidents of 
wonderful and hairbreadth escapes from these wily and 
warlike people. Now they are poor, inefficient, inoffen- 
sive, dispirited people, who could hardly make efficient 
headway against a flock of good-sized grasshoppers. 

Being delayed a few hours at Oldtown, while arrange- 
ments could be made for our departure up the river, I 
crossed over to the island, in order to see the town, and 
the people. The town I easily found, but the people 
were few of them at home, being gone hunting and fish- 
ing. The town consists of a very neat, and, indeed, 
handsome church, some twenty or thirty wooden frame 
buildings, much neater in their external appearance than 
those generally found in western towns, and an untold 
number of camps, or tents. These camps are built of 
plank roughly put together. The fire is in the middle 
of the camp, and the smoke finds its way out through a 
hole made for the purpose overhead, or through the 
cracks in the walls, or through the door, just as it may 
suit its convenience. 

While on the island I had the honor of an introduc- 
tion to the governor of the tribe, his excellency, the 
Hon. John Neptune. I had seen a white governor, but 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 255 

never an Indian of that dignity; and, of course, I felt 
6ome solicitude on the matter. I walked along toward 
the mansion, with as much dignity as I well knew how 
to assume, and prepared myself to exhibit suitable re- 
spect and awe, on being ushered into his excellency's 
most august presence. The governor's mansion was a 
camp, in no way distinguishable from the plebeian camps 
about it, except that there were more dogs to bark. The 
door consisted of a blanket hung up as a curtain over a 
space left in the wall. Through this I was ushered into 
the presence of the governor and his lady. He was oc- 
cupying a dignified position on his chair of state, which 
consisted of the naked floor of naked earth. A blazing 
fire was glowing hot in the very midst of the room, and 
the governor and his lady were enveloped in the smoke. 
The lady, who appeared, to say the least, to be no great 
beauty, was diligently and honorably employed in such 
household aff'airs as must always be attended to even by 
governors' ladies, especially when they have to be their 
own help. I really entertained a much higher opinion 
of this lady, for seeing her thus diligently employed ; 
and I made up my mind, at the time, that her honorable 
industry might, in the opinion of the governor, be a re- 
deeming trait in her character, and probably make up for 
the unquestionable lack of beauty. 

The old governor was quite intelligent and communi- 
cative. I remained with him as long as I could stand 
the smoke; and when I could stand it no longer, I made 
as hasty an exit, as a due regard for politeness and the 
curtained door would admit, and rushed out into the 
oppn air. Welcome, the open air! I hate confinement, 
either in the smoke of camps or of cities. For amusement 
and pleasure you may keep your cities, and your towns, 
and your villages to yourselves. Give me the plain, open 
country, the prairie, the woodland, the mountain. For a 



256 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

place to worship Grod, keep your close, crowded churches; 
but give me the grove — God's first and most magnificent 
temple. For a study, keep your nice little room; but 
give me the shade of this old beech, with the sunshine 
all around, and the gentle south-west fanning my cheek. 
The open air of heaven, how it cools the fevered head, 
calms the troubled heart, and soothes the agitated spirit ! 
As soon as I had well cleared his excellency's thresh- 
old, and taken a few deep, delicious draughts of pure air, 
to expel the smoke from my lungs, and to revivify my 
blood, I started for a ramble over the island. I soon 
came to the graveyard — a place I never shun ; for it 
always suggests holy thoughts and reverential sentiments. 
This Indian burial-place is one of the neatest cemeteries 
I have ever seen. It is situated in a lovely rural spot, 
on a gentle hill, commanding a fine view of the entire 
village, and the two branches of the river flowing by the 
island. It was inclosed by a neat and substantial fence, 
laid off in small lots, and ornamented with trees, shrub- 
bery, and flowers; some planted by human hand, and 
others suflTered to grow as nature planted them. At the 
head of each grave was a small wooden cross ; some 
plain, and others tastefully carved and painted. Many 
of the graves were provided with a small box, shaped 
like the roof of a house. In pleasant weather this was 
laid aside, that the warm sunshine might fall on the 
grave, and the gentle summer wind might breathe over 
it, and the wild flowers might bloom on it. But when 
the rough storms swept down from the neighboring 
mountains, and the deep snows fell, and wild winter 
reigned, then the poor bereaved Indian went and placed 
the covering over the grave of his lost and lovely one, as 
if he would protect the dead from the wintery winds and 
pelting storm. To me it seemed an affecting exhibition 
of human affection. I never could find it in my heart to 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 257 

censui'e tliose who may seem to carry their veneration for 
the dead too far. Their philosophy may be at fault, and, 
by the censorious, even their religion may be impeached; 
yet their hearts will be found in the right place. 

There were, in this Indian burial-place, no monuments 
of marble, or of granite; but there were at nearly all 
the graves wooden slabs, so neatly painted as to resemble, 
at a short distance, white marble. From one of these I 
copied the following inscription : 

" Sosepmali onemun 

Iral Hassun 

ke sikatnet, 18, 

Ahtozi Me ehiue, Dec. 

28, 1833, chipatok, oikel, 

Tamtanial, 

iho hakisitankou oizi 

Al polsosepal elasun 

Zitpan." 

I left the burying-place, and soon after the island, with 
subdued feelings, and sad reflections. I had seen the 
descendants of the mighty people, that once possessed 
my native state, thus reduced to a few hundreds, limited 
in their range to a few islands in a wild river, and grow- 
ing less in numbers and importance every year. But 
thus goes the world. Change follows change, revolution 
sweeps after revolution, and death follows behind to finish 
the work with us all. 

THE JOURNEY. 
Our journey lay through an unsettled wilderness. We 
therefore had to take with us all necessary provisions for 
an absence of some weeks. Ourselves and baggage had 
to be pushed up a rough, rocky river, in batteaux and 
canoes. The batteau is about twenty feet long, and 
three or four feet wide in the middle, while the extremi- 
ties taper to a point, and turn up, much like the old 
peaked-toed shoe worn by our great-grandmothers. It is 

22* 



258 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION- 

made of plank, as light as possible ; for it must often be 
carried by the boatmen around the falls^ which frequently 
occur on the river. It has a flat bottom, so as easily to 
slide over the rocks in shallow water. The canoe is made 
of the bark of the white birch. It is round as the tree 
from which the bark was taken, and, like the batteau, 
peaked at both ends. It is about fifteen feet long, and 
two feet wide. It is so light that a man can carry it on 
his head. In these frail vessels we first packed our camp- 
ing apparatus, provisions, and mathematical instruments, 
and then we packed in ourselves, sitting much in the 
manner of the Indian governor, flat on the floor. To sit 
in any other more dignified or comfortable manner, would 
manifestly endanger the stability of our position. To 
manage the batteau requires two skillful, athletic men. 
One stands on the prow, and the other in the stern. 
Each has a long pole with a spike in the end. This is 
called a setting pole. Keeping time with their poles, 
they thrust them against the rocks, or on the bottom of 
the river, and, pushing with great force, urge the boat 
rapidly up against the current. The canoe is managed 
in a similar way, only it requires but one to work it. 
Our boatmen on the batteau were skillful, careful hands, 
well acquainted with the river, and every way qualified 
for their business; but they were addicted to the most 
horrid profanity of language. I did not before know 
that the English language could be tortured into such 
outrageous oaths. If our army in Mexico swore as bad 
as did our Penobscot boatmen, it is not at all strange that 
the Mexican general, Ampudia, wished to learn how to 
swear so too, thinking, as it would appear, that the vic- 
tory of our army was owing to the big oaths sworn by the 
ofiicers at the men. Finding every means of correction 
ineffectual, I chose to go into the canoe which was man- 
aged by an Indian ; for though he swore, as well as the 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 259 

white men, yet he swore in Indian, and it did not sound 
BO bad as in English. 

A HUNTO-MANIAC. 

There was in our company a very queer genius. He 
was a young man of good education, well skilled in chem- 
istry, and an excellent mineralogist. He was plain and 
frank in his manners, always speaking just what ne 
thought, and always taking the opposite side in debate, 
no matter what the question was, or by whom it was 
started. But his great peculiarity was a mania for hunt- 
ing and fishing. The river abounded in a splendid spe- 
cies of trout, especially about the falls and deep holes of 
the rocks. When we happened on one of these. fishing 
grounds, it was impossible to get our sportsman along. 
He would fish, and fish, and fish, merely for the sake of 
fishing, thus delaying the expedition at the imminent 
risk of approaching winter. On one occasion he wan- 
dered ofi' from the river, up a dreary mountain, after 
game. Here he lost his way, and had to lie out all night, 
under the shelter of an old tree. He was perfectly reck- 
less of personal danger. If he saw a squirrel, he would 
leap out of the boat with his gun, at the evident hazard 
of drowning. On one occasion, as we were passing along 
in water some four or five feet deep, with a very rocky bot- 
tom, a flock of ducks flew over. The hunting mania im- 
mediately seized our friend, and regardless of the depth of 
the water, or the rocks at the bottom, he leaped overboard 
with his gun, and lighting on a slippery rock, some two 
feet below the surface, he fell into the river, and went 
all sprawling under, gun, powder, and all. While he was 
picking himself up the ducks escaped. 

A day or two after this our hunter got enough of the 
"villainous smell of gunpowder." He was trying to kin- 
dle a fire, and, as the wood did not readily ignite, he put 
some powder on it, and then blew lustily away at the coal. 



260 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

Suddenly the powder flashed, and he received the whole 
charge in his face. This caused him to make a hasty 
somerset, keeling over most whimsically, with beard, 
whiskers, and hair most ludicrously scorched. He began 
to think gunpowder was not what it was cracked up to be, 
and after this the birds and squirrels had a respite. 

A DINNER PARTY. 
Could our friends have looked in on our dinner party 
in the woods, they might have deemed it quite an amus- 
ing affair. We were seated around a big fire. The earth 
served us for chairs, ready made, and bottomed, and 
cushioned. A good clean chi-p, or a nice piece of bark, 
served an excellent purpose for a plate. A tin dipper 
formed a fine coffee cup. As to forks, "fingers were 
made before them." We were not burdened with many 
varieties of food, taking a long time to eat, and then 
giving us the dyspepsia. Nor did we bother ourselves 
with useless ceremony, and many excuses, and much 
compliment. I suppose the ceremonies of civilized life 
must be necessary. It would seem so, from their being 
so very much used. I would not object to them were 
they not often so heartless and hollow. A dinner party 
in the woods is, however, sometimes a relief to one tired 
of the regular routine of civilization. There is some- 
thing so free and easy about it, that it seems to give one 
a new set of ideas. 

THE ENCAMPMENT. 
After a journey of many days through the most various 
scenery, sometimes pushing the boat against the rapid 
current, and at others gliding smoothly over the broad 
lakes, into which the river frequently expanded; now 
going past wide and fertile bottom-lands, and again coast- 
ing along under the shadow of mountain cliffs; now 
opening into broad meadows of tall wild grass, and then 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 261 

shooting througli some narrow passage, where the over- 
hanging trees, entwining their branches from each side 
of the river, completely shut out the sunlight, we arrived 
at the place destined for headquarters, during our sojourn 
in this wild region. The spot selected for the encamp- 
ment was a beautiful island. The river here expanded 
into a broad, deep, and most lovely lake. The island was 
covered with every variety of tree common to a northern 
forest. There was the magnificent elm, with its large, 
graceful branches; the birch, with its dress of pure 
white; the maple, with its limbless trunk and rounded 
top; the northern cedar, with its gnarled, elk-horn limbs; 
the pine, with its tassels sighing in the wind, and the fir, 
with its tall, straight trunk, and its delicate bi-anches, so 
regular, as to form a more perfect cone than art ever con- 
structed. The island was bounded by a sandy beach, ex- 
tending all around it, forming a most delightful prome- 
nade. The clear waters of the lake reflected the blue 
heavens and the green trees so perfectly, that you seemed, 
when gazing on its tranquil surface, to be looking at an- 
other beautiful world, concave, below you. At the dis- 
tance of about ten miles appeared, looming up far above 
the horizon, Katahden, the prince of eastern mountains. 
It stood wild, grand, and solitary before us. Its topmost 
peak was to be the summit of our ambition, and the end 
, of our journey. We had come thus far to measure its 
hight, and study its mineralogy and its geology. "We 
could approach it no nearer by the river. From this 
point our ascent must be made on foot. 

The sunset view at this place was most splendid. The 
waters of the lake glittered like silver. The trees, 
clothed in their autumnal garments of a thousand hues, 
seemed to reflect back the crimson, and the gold, and the 
purple of gorgeous skies. On the east, and on the south, 
and on the west, the view was bounded by a circumfer- 



262 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

ence of blue hills, just rising above tbe horizon. On the 
north ■was Katahden^ "monarch of all it surveys." It 
stood alone, rising from a vast forest plain, like an island 
from the illimitable ocean. It seemed composed of alter- 
nate ridges and ravines — the ridges protuberant, like im- 
mense ribs, and the ravines of unknown depth. In many 
places there appeared the path of immense avalanches, or 
slides. These extended from the top to the base, a dis- 
tance of many miles, sweeping down, in their headlong 
rush, rocks, and trees, and acres of earth. The light of 
sunset, reflected from the ridges, and from the naked 
path of the slides, and the shadows of night gathering 
dark and deep in the bottomless ravines, presented a 
mingled picture of brilliant beauty, and awful grandeur, 
such as I may never hope to see again. 

The sunset faded, and the autumn twilight threw its 
soft radiance over the scene. And when that, like all 
things beautiful of earth, had faded too, the moon arose, 
and shed her mellow light over lake, and forest, and 
mountain. I rambled away, at a distance from the bus- 
tle of the camp, and sat down on the sandy beach, to 
enjoy the scene. It was not the place, nor the time for 
me to enjoy society. It was the place and the time to 
commune with nature, and with the past, and with the 
departed loved ones, whom I can not believe, at such 
times, far distant from me. 

ASCENT OP KATAHDEN. ' 

As soon as morning dawned, we arose from our bed of 
boughs, and made preparation for our excursion to the 
mountain. Concealing from the bears and wolves such 
baggage and provisions as we did not wish to take with 
us, we left the island, and glided over the smooth waters 
of the lake to the eastern shore. Here we drew up our 
light skiffs, and hid them among the wild shrubbery on 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 2G3 

the bank. The mathematical instruments, and the pro- 
visions, and equipage indispensable on our journey, were 
distributed among the company. From an eminence near 
by we took the bearing to the foot of an immense slide 
from the mountain, apparently about ten miles distant. 
We then, with baggage and utensil, plunged into the woods 
in Indian file. We soon, in the depth of the forest, lost 
all view of the mountain, and had to depend wholly on 
our compass. Our route led over the strangest variety of 
scenery. For some miles we passed over gentle hills 
with intervening valleys. From these the original forest 
had wholly disappeared. Some careless lumberman had, 
some years before, kindled a fire in the dry season, in the 
pine forest; and when a fire once gets started in summer 
among the trees of a New England forest, it sweeps every 
living thing before it. All, therefore, of the noble forest 
trees of this region had perished and fallen. There had 
sprung up thickets of white birch, patches of gigantic 
ferns, and immense fields of blueberry bushes, loaded 
with the finest fruit. In one part of our journey we fell 
into a cedar swamp. This was nearly impassable. The 
limbs of the cedar grew but a few feet from the ground, 
and the branching tops were so entwined as to render 
the direction of Dr. Franklin, "Stoop as you go through 
the world," of indispensable importance to us. Passing 
this cedar forest, we came to a clear cold mountain stream. 
It poured down from the mountain in many a beautiful 
cascade, and went roaring, and ripping, and tearing away, 
laughing outright, as it rushed on toward the river. Its 
bed was strewed with huge bowlders of rock, having evi- 
dently tumbled down from the mountain. I had the 
curiosity to measure one of these granite blocks. Its 
circumference was seventy-nine, and its bight fifteen feet. 
Borne down the stream by the rushing waters, it had 
struck another rock, which had arrested its progress. 



264 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

The sun was near setting, when we reached the base of 
the mountain, at the foot of the path left by the great 
slide. From this point there seemed, to one looking up, 
a broad, straight, and tolerably smooth road to the very 
top of the mountain peak. The hand of man, however, 
has had no part in forming this great highway. It is the 
pathway of the avalanche. It is a groove in the mount- 
ain side, varying from two to ten feet deep, and five 
hundred feet wide. At some unknown period, a mass 
of earth, with all its trees and shrubs, was swept down 
the mountain, far into the plain below, leaving its path- 
way marked for ages to come. Up this pathway we began 
our ascent. The inclination was at first but gentle, and 
the way strewed with pebbly sand and gravel. As we 
advanced, the ascent became steeper, and the road 
rougher. Near the top we had to climb up over rocks 
piled on rocks. Ruin had driven her plowshare over every 
inch, and turned up prodigious furrows all along the way. 
Night came upon us, and we rested, forming the best 
shelter we could. Morning dawned, and we made a 
scanty breakfast, and prepared to climb on. We had 
reached a little area of table-land, commanding a splen- 
did view. Below us and around us the atmosphere was 
clear. We stopped to look on the magnificent prospect. 
Toward the south the clear waters of the Penobscot, as 
they sped away toward the ocean, gleamed like a thread 
of silver. Toward the west there lay spread out a suc- 
cession of lakes, beautiful, bright, and innumerable. 
Some of them we knew to be many leagues distant, yet, 
from the elevation on which we stood, one might seem 
able to throw a stone upon their glassy surface. To the 
east appeared an illimitable forest plain, unbroken, silent, 
and desolate. On the north, far as the eye could reach, 

" Hills peejjed o'er tills, and Alps on Alps arose," 
rugged, savage, and drear. 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 265 

But while the lower strata of atmosphere was clear, 
affording unobstructed view of earth, heaven was shut 
out from view. Clouds high in air were rapidly sailing 
over forest, and mountain, and lake. One, blacker than 
its companions, had stooped from its airy flight, and was 
resting on the mountain peak before us. It seemed im- 
penetrable ; yet we had to climb on into its very embraces. 
Our way became more difficult. Rocks of every fantastic 
shape lay along the path, many of them so poised, that a 
false step, or the slightest accident, might start them 
from their resting-places, and send them thundering 
down, carrying ruin on such of our party as happened to 
be behind. Some of our companions got frightened at 
the scene, and made their escape, while their bones were 
sound, to a place of safety. 

At last, with many a weary step, and many a hairbreadth 
escape, we reached the cloud-capped summit. Cloud- 
capped indeed it was, and the cap drawn tightly down. 
The cloud, which, from below, appeared resting so quiet 
on its mountain perch, was all in a whirl. The wind 
blew so violently, that one of the company, with comic 
gravity, inquired how many men it might take to hold 
one's hair on. Nor was wind and cloud all. The snow 
came thick and fast, and the cold was so intense, that 
out of ten msn, protected by overcoats and mittens, not 
one could unscrew the tube of the barometer, so be- 
numbed were our fingers. 

An Indian of the Penobscots, who was one of the 
party, averred that Pimola, the mythological demon of 
the mountain, had sent this terrible storm upon us, in 
punishment of our impiety in visiting his dominions. 
Pimola is the genius of Katahden, of Herculean strength, 
occupying a throne of granite, and reigning sole despot 
over those lofty peaks and dark ravines. No mortal eye 
has ever seen him; but his voice, as the Indians affirm, 
23 



266 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

is often heard, and especially in the storm. The Penob- 
seots have the fear of him continually before their eyes, 
and it is with difficulty that you can urge them to ap- 
proach the mountain. 

After much difficulty, we succeeded in taking the bar- 
ometrical observations, and obtaining such geological 
information as the circumstances allowed; and then, find- 
ing that longer delay might be dangerous, on account of 
the intensity of the cold, and the violence of the storm, 
we started on our return. Starting off in the direction 
in which I supposed we had come up, I had proceeded 
but a short distance, when I*was arrested by the warning 
voice of our Indian attendant, and informed that I was 
on the wrong track. I could hardly believe I was not in 
the same path by which we had ascended, but returning 
to the spot from which I had started, he soon convinced 
me that he was right, and that the way I had been going 
would have led off among crags, and cliffs, and precipices, 
and ravines, no one knows where. The sagacity of the 
Indian had induced him, on going up the mountain, to 
mark the path, after we left the slide, by setting up 
stones — a prudent expedient, that never occurred to the 
rest of us. By this instinctive foresight of a half-wild 
Indian, our whole company was saved from untold suffer- 
ings, and even death. The path by which we had come 
up is the only known way of access to the mountain ; and 
had we attempted the descent by any other route, we must 
have become inextricably confused and bewildered, and we 
might have perished in the storm. 

As we were passing down along the brink of one of 
the ravines, which I had not noticed in our ascent, owing 
to the dense mist surrounding us, I looked down the 
dizzy abyss. How wide it was I know not, as I could not 
in the storm see across ; but it was at least a thousand 
feet deep, and walled up by perpendicular precipices. 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 267 

The scene was intensely sublime. The emotion was 
indeed overwhelming. On one side was the naked 
mountain peak, drear and desolate, its rocks rived by the 
frosts of six thousand winters; on the other was the 
deep, dark chasm, whose recesses, formed by jutting 
crags and overhanging cliffs, no adventurous foot hi;d 
ever trod; above us, and around us, and below us, was 
the storm, the wintery winds whirling the fast falling 
snow into many a fantastic drift. The scene made the 
blood run chill and the teeth chatter. 

PERILOUS ADVENTURE. 
About noon we safely arrived at the place which we 
had left in the morning. Here we found our compan- 
ions, who, being frightened at the falling rocks, starting 
from their precarious poise in our ascent, had gone back, 
leaving to us the danger and the glory of accomplishing 
the ascent to the summit. They had provided as well as 
they could for their comfort and for ours. But our situa- 
tion was by no means desirable. We had but one tent, 
having left the other on the island. It was entirely too 
small to afford protection from the storm for all of us. 
We were drenched with snow and rain ; for the cloud 
which capped the mountain top with snow, poured down 
torrents of rain on the sides. We had no change of 
raiment. Little or no fire could be raised, for we were 
yet too high up the mountain to find much wood, and 
what little we did find was too wet to burn, and only 
furnished volumes of smoke to be whirled into our faces 
and eyes by the wind. In addition to this, we were 
nearly out of provision, having scarcely sufficient for half 
our company. Our island camp, where we had left our 
clothing and provisions, was nine miles distant, through 
a tangled, pathless forest. It was deemed impossible to 
reach it that night. Such, however, were the inconven- 
iences of our position, that I proposed to be one of any 



268 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

number, who would proceed to the island, running the 
risk of reaching it before night, thus leaving more room 
and provision for those who might remain in the mount- 
ain camp. Two of the boatmen volunteered. Each of 
us took our share of the luggage, and marking our course 
by the compass, we started, in a straight line, through 
bogs and brooks, and over rocks and ravines, and by hills, 
and valleys, and swamps, for the island. Burdened with 
a part of the mathematical instruments, and with my 
overcoat, which had absorbed too much water for con- 
venience, wearied with the morning's excursion on the 
mountain, and enfeebled by unremitting pain in my 
shoulder, which, on account of repeated dislocations, had 
become acutely sensible to fatigue, I yet, for six miles, 
successfully measured speed with the athletic boatmen. 
We had now reached the river ; but our camp was still 
three miles below, and night was fast coming on us. My 
strength began to fail, and one of the boatmen took my 
share of the luggage, and we pressed on. Shortly my 
overcoat became too burdensome, and the other boatman 
took that. But in divesting myself of my overcoat I 
unfortunately dislocated my shoulder. By the aid of my 
companions I soon reduced the joint, as I had by experi- 
ence learned how to do it; but the pain and exhaustion 
produced by the accident used up what little strength I 
had. 

I requested my companions to leave me, and go on to 
the camp, and build a fire, and get some supper, and, as 
soon as I could recover, I would come on, as fast as I could. 
I then sat down on a rock to rest. Soon I became excess- 
ively chilled, and found that if I sat there much longer 
I never should rise from my seat again. I arose to go 
on, but every locomotive muscle seemed chilled and 
trembling. I, however, nerved myself up, and attempted 
to proceed along the river's brink. But the way was 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 269 

incumbered by fallen trees, and I had not strength to lift 
my wearied limbs over them. I therefore passed down 
the bank, and walked along the beach. I soon came to a 
place where the water approached so near the bank as to 
leave no passage between. Attempting to climb up, but 
failing in strength to accomplish it, I waded on through 
the water, till the bank receding left another strip of 
beach. After a time I found my strength fast exhaust- 
ing, and myself strongly inclined to sleep. Feeble, how- 
ever, as had become the powers of body, the mind yet 
retained its usual presence. I stood on the river shore, 
casting about me for some rock, under whose shelter I 
might lie down. But I knew that if I should lie down, 
wet and cold, to sleep in the storm, I might never wake 
again. And there were, far away, now clustering around 
the blazing fire of my cottage hearth, those for whom I 
would yet live. I therefore rallied all my physical forces 
for another efi'ort, but found that, though I had yet 
strength enough to stand, I was utterly unable to 
proceed. 

I was standing on the river shore, partly in the water. 
Around me was the howling storm, before me was the 
rushing river, and above me, and fast gathering over me 
was the dense darkness of a moonless night. There was 
not a human home for nearly a hundred miles. A part 
of my company was some six miles up the mountain, and 
the rest some three miles down the river. So desolate 
was the place, that I never could dream of a living soul 
in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, I thought I could 
but call for help. I called, and I was answered. A voice 
came back distinctly heard above the blast. I stood sur- 
prised. Is it an echo ? May it be an illusion of my own 
bewildered brain, like the bell of death which we some- 
times hear ringing in the ear, or like the call of my loved 
and lost child, that sometimes thrills my soul, and vibrates 
23* 



270 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

my nerves, as I wander at twilight among the bowers 
where she used to play? No, no, it is a real, living, 
human voice. And there surely is, approaching the bank 
on the other side of the river, a man. And just beyond 
are the camp fires of the party to which he belongs — a 
party of lumbermen, on their way to the distant lakes 
above. Well, there is a Providence, I know there is, and 
to him will I look for protection, though waves of sorrow 
roll over my head, and rush through my heart. 

A SABBATH IN THE WILDERNESS. 

The stranger, whom Providence sent to my rescue, 
crossed the river in his canoe, and safely conveyed me to 
my own camp, where my companions had prepared a roar- 
ing fire, and a bountiful supper. On my arrival I was so 
chilled I could not speak; but a change of clothes, a 
blazing fire, and a substantial supper soon restored me. 
I then wrapped myself in my blanket, and raising my 
eyes and my heart in devout gratitude to heaven for my 
protection through the fatigues and dangers of the day, 
I lay down on my bed of cedar boughs, and soon fell 
asleep. I was, however, too much fatigued to sleep un- 
disturbed. The image of Katahden, with its precipices 
and ravines, and the snow storm, of the pathless wilder- 
ness, and the conception of desperate struggles to extri- 
cate myself from impending danger, haunted me in my 
slumbers. 

In the morning I awoke just as the sun peeped in 
through the trees. All was bright and beautiful. Not a 
cloud obscured the sky. The winds were lulled to rest. 
The voice of the tempest was hushed. All was deep, 
placid repose. It was like the repose that gathers over 
the fair features of childhood when the stormy struggle 
of disease and dissolution is passed, and 

" Before decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers." 



THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 271 

It was the holy day of rest — the Sabbath. It was, too, 
the Sabbath of the year. The equinoctial storm was 
passed, and mellow autumn, with her vai'iant train, had 
come over the plains, while winter was sitting crowned 
with its wreath of snow on the mountain. 

It was the sweet Sabbath day, and I was left to enjoy 
it alone; for my companions went to meet the lingering 
members of the party with provisions. I love sometimes 
to be alone. I love a solitary ramble in the forest, or by 
the sequestered lake, or the unfrequented stream. There 
are times when I love to hear no sounds but those of 
nature, and to see no sights but the green grass, and the 
waving trees, and the bright waters, and the blue sky. 
Such seasons are to me the Sabbath of the soul — a Sab- 
bath, not the busiest day of the week, devoted, from early 
morn till late at night, to active exercises, and on which, 
having to do or to hear so much talhing, there is no time 
to think, but a Sabbath of rest, a quiet retreat, of holy 
meditation. Such a Sabbath was that which I spent on 
that lone isle of beauty, far away in the Penobscot waters. 
It was one of the happiest and the most profitable I ever 
spent. 

The next morning we made ready for our return home. 
Fair faces, cheerful hearts, sweet smiles, and merry voices, 
would greet me on my return to my distant home ; but 
yet I could not without regret leave my little island. It 
seemed like the home of childhood. While preparations 
were making for our departure, I wandered over it, mark- 
ing each remembered spot, where I had passed the twi- 
light hour, or the Sabbath rest. And when all was ready, 
and I had stepped into my canoe, I went back to a lovely 
bower, and said, instinctively, ^'Good-by!" 

Thus it is that the heart clings to every object asso- 
ciated with its joys and its sorrows. Many a year has 
passed since I saw that lonely isle. And I have seen 



272 THE BACKWOODS EXPEDITION. 

many a beautiful and many a lovely spot. Yet I still 
love, and sometimes pine for my lonely little island. 

" Still my fancy can discover 

Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; 
Darker sliadows round me hover, 
Isle of beauty, fare thee well ! 

Through the mist that floats above me, 

Faintly sounds the evening bell, 
Like a voice from those that love me, 

Breathing fondly, fare thee well ! 

What would I not give to wander 

Where my old companions dwell? 
Absence makes the heart grow warmer; 

Isle of beauty, fare thee well !" 



AN INVITATION. 273 



AN INVITATION. 

It is a bright and beautiful day. There is spread all 
over the heavens a canopy of clear, blue sky. How 
gracefully waves the tall grass in the valley, and the 
ripening grain on the hill, and the delicate limbs of the 
trees above us ! How balmy the gentle zephyr that fans 
my cheek and lightly stirs the hairs of my head ! No 
sounds are here but those of nature. The village is too 
far removed for any of its bustle to reach me, except the 
hammer of a single carpenter, pounding away on a house 
erecting in the neighborhood. 

Come, gentle one, and see my bower before its quiet is 
disturbed and its seclusion desecrated by the ever-busy 
and intermeddling agency of what the world calls im- 
provement. I really fear, my dear reader, that the days 
of my rural pleasures, in this clime, are numbered. 
When I came here, I got as far away from the village 
as I well could — so far that I felt secure against all the 
inroads of improvement. But I see, in the valley just 
below me, a corps of engineers, and they are staking, for 
the final location, the great railroad that is to connect 
the east and the west, forming the great thoroughfare 
from the Atlantic to the Pacific. They have located the 
Greencastle depot alarmingly near the termination of the 
secluded street that runs by the bower. And our village 
corporation are standing on the hill, between me and the 
town, planning tbe grading of the street, the building of 
culverts, and the flagging of the walks. And, as if one 
railroad was not enough, another corps of engineers is 
hard by, running another road from New Albany on the 



274 AN INVITATION. 

Ohio to Lafayette on the Wabash, and thence by Laporte 
to Lake Michigan. 

What shall I do? The first snort of the steam-horse 
will scare away all the sylvan and fairy beings that now 
people this sequestered valley. I can not live amidst 
smoke, and dust, and steam. I see no way but I must 
be off. I have been thinking all day where I shall go. 
I recollect a place I once saw, and I think it will do. 
Hiding along, one day, near the coast of the Atlantic, on 
ascending a bleak and barren hill, there suddenly ap- 
peared in the distance a scene of beauty such as has 
never since appeared to me. There lay, smiling beneath 
the clear, blue sky, a village of exquisite finish and love- 
liness. The streets were wide, shaded by grand old for- 
est trees, and clean as if the people had nothing to do 
but to sweep them. The cottages peered out amidst the 
green trees, white as if the painter had scarcely put 
up his brush. Each house was surrounded by ample 
grounds, furnishing room for the nicely-mown lawn, and 
the tastefully-cultivated flower-garden. Immediately back 
of the village rose a magnificent hill, from whose top 
might be seen, at a distance of several miles, the ocean, 
covered with white sail. In front of the beautiful little 
paradise was a plain, spreading out over many thousands 
of acres, covered with evergreens. On one side appeared 
a clear, smooth, and tranquil lake, embosomed amid hills. 
Some convenient distance from this village, so far that 
improvement can never reach it, especially as the village 
was finislied many years ago, and will probably never en- 
large its borders, I remember to have seen, on one of mj 
solitary rambles through the evergreen forest, a spot, 
whose seclusion I think will never be disturbed by the 
noise and din of mercenary life. That beautiful and ro- 
mantic spot has stood there unmolested, while the im- 
provements of two hundred years have been going on; 



AN INVITATION, 275 

and I may safely calculate on its remaining thus for two 
hundred years to come, unless I, as I think I shall, build 
me a hermitage on it. It is in the center of an immense, 
uncultivated, and uninhabited plain. In the distance is 
a range of mountains on the one side, and the ocean on 
the other. The plain is covered with evergreens, each 
of which would be worth an acre of land in the west, but 
which there are unappreciated and unnoticed. The land 
defies cultivation, and, hence, would never be cleared un- 
less the trees were cut off for wood, and, in that case, the 
young ones would grow as fast as the old ones were cut 
down. In the depth of the forest is a small lake. Its 
sides are perpendicular rock. Its depth I could never 
fathom. Near that lake, in the depth of that forest, 
with the mountains behind me, and the ocean before me, 
and a lovely village of refined, educated, hospitable peo- 
ple near enough to be visited when I want to see the 
world, I have concluded, on some future day, to build me 
a hermitage, so as to be sure to have a place that can not 
be disturbed by railroads, canals, depots, rattling streets, 
and other nuisances. When I get all things fixed to my 
mind, I will mark the way to my cottage by blazed trees, 
so that if any of my old friends think enough of me they 
can follow.the trail. 

I do not intend, however, to go away from here at 
present. It will be a year or two before the improve- 
ments get so far along as to annoy me. In the mean time, 
fair reader, I should like to see your pleasant face smiling 
amid my trees. If you come at the proper season I can 
help you, or you can help yourself, to the fruits of the 
orchard. At all times I can hold to your lips a cup of 
clear, cold, pure water, gushing perennial out of the hill- 
side. The little brook that flows along the valley from 
that spring is always limpid and clear, and its banks are 
shaded by shrubbery and sprinkled with flowers. It is 



276 AN INVITATION. 

a place a naiad miglit choose for her home; and yet — 
can you believe it? — a neighbor of mine came along the 
other day, and wanted to put a pipe into my spring, and 
take all the water out of my brook, despoiling my valley, 
to furnish him means of driving a rattling, squealing, 
smoking, steam saw-mill. I told him he might drive his 
mill by the same force a Yankee acquaintance of mine 
did — the force of circumstances. He had scarcely gone, 
when another came along, and wanted to pipe the spring 
to carry on the operations of a porh-house. Horror of 
horrors ! Tell it not in Judea ! In return I asked of 
him one favor : just let me know when he was ready to 
begin to erect a pork-house in sight of me, and I would 
leave the country the day before. 

So you see, dear reader, I have reason, abundant 
reason, to be alarmed, and to be looking out a more safe 
retreat. And if you intend to visit me here, you had 
better come soon. 

I am here again, reader. Night has come and gone. 
The morning bell aroused me from quiet slumber. The 
mellow toll from the college steeple called me at the 
usual hour to prayers. Another day has nearly passed. 
I have spent it, as usual, amidst equations, triangles, 
conic sections, and differentials, with a sprinkling of 
logic and ethics. For the brief hour that remains I 
have come to my sequestered resort, to commune with 
nature and with thee. The day is beautiful, but not as 
was yesterday. The clear blue of the sky has given place 
to a light, thin haze, betokening the presence of great 
heat. The air is still. Not a leaf stirs, nor a blade of 
grass waves. In the west is gathering a dark cloud, and 
the distant thunder is heard rumbling over the woods 
that stretch away toward the Wabash prairies. To me 
the sight of gathering cloud and the roar of distant 



AN INVITATION. 277 

thunder are not unpleasant. They are sights and pounds 
familiar to me in days of yore. They remind of the 
hills, and the plains, and the mountains, and the ocean, 
and the friends of my native land. Many years ago I 
was caught, on a summer day, by a thunder-cloud on the 
summit of a lofty, rocky mountain, where there was 
not even a bush for shelter. I had spent many years 
of my youth in sight of the mountain rearing its blue 
top high among the clouds, but had never visited it. I 
had been absent several years, and returning, I wondered 
how I could have lived so long at the very base of so 
magnificent a mountain, and never have taken the pains 
to look at the world from its summit. It thus often hap- 
pens that scenes of beauty or of grandeur easily access- 
ible are not appreciated by us. One might live for years 
within sound of Niagara, and never think of going to 
see it; but let him move away to the west, or to the 
east, and he would make a long journey back to see what 
he might have seen by an hour's ride at any time for the 
past ten years. Even home and friends become more 
dear by temporary absence. 

One fine morning, in company with a young friend, I 
started for a day's excursion to the mountain. We rode 
some ten miles over bush and brier, and through brake 
and forest, our horses tumbling over rocks, and pitching 
over fallen trees, till we came to a cedar swamp. Fair 
reader, you never saw a cedar swamp. How shall I de- 
scribe it? Imagine all the horns of all the deer that 
have ever roamed in all the forests in all the world to be 
piled about ten feet high, and as thick as they can be 
inserted in every way into an immense swamp, and then 
compel a poor wight to make his way through them. 
That would be something like the passage of a cedar 
swamp. The dense thicket throws out its dry and knotty 
limbs in every possible direction, and so close to the 
24 



278 AN INVITATION. 

ground that a dog must stoop to get along. We left oul 
horses tied to a bush, and plunged into the swamp, and, 
by crawling, and climbing, and edging, and backing, 
with many a rent and many a scratch, we got through. 
We then had to ascend a steep hill-side, through a forest 
of firs. Gradually the firs grew smaller' and fewer, till 
we stood on the naked rock, rising, like an inclined and 
overthrown wall, far above us. Up the rugged rocks we 
clambered by foot, and by knee, and by elbow, and by 
hand, till we stood on the summit. We were just taking 
breath, when there swept over us a thick mist, drenching 
us to the skin. We stood shivering in the blast, as the 
wind swept howling by us, and enveloped in a shroud of 
mist, but for a moment, when the wind ceased, the cloud 
descended, and the sun shone on the place where we 
stood, calm, bright, and beautiful. Below us the smaller 
hills, the valleys, the lakes, the villages, and all the plain 
were covered by the dark thunder-cloud, from which the 
lightnings were streaming and the thunders roaring. 
We stood for some time gazing on the scene so new 
to us. We had climbed to this rugged summit to see 
the world below, and we watched for some opening or 
break in the clouds, that we might at least find our way 
down again. In one small spot, and for a moment only, 
the cloud gave way, and we saw in a deep valley below 
us, as if but a stone's throw, and yet in reality miles 
from us, a lovely village, surrounded by meadows and ■ 
pastures drenched with the shower. The opening closed, • 
and the next gust of wind brought back the same cloud 
which had passed us, or another of the same kind, and 
we were again copiously besprinkled, till my companion 
averred that, by actual count, he could find only fourteen 
dry threads in all his garments. 

We stood some time waiting for an abatement of rainj 
but the more we waited, the more it rained. As night 



AN INVITATION. 279 

was approaching, "we thought it time to be going. But 
which way ? Nothing could be seen but cloud, and it 
was impossible to tell which way we had ascended. How- 
ever, go which ever way we might, we could get down; 
and it was not many miles in any direction to a clearing ; 
and should we happen to miss our horses, and they have 
to stand tied to a bush all night, it would be no worse 
than for us to remain on the mountain without the shel- 
ter of a leaf. So we plunged on at a venture, and when 
we reached the limit of vegetation, we happened to dis- 
cover the limb of a bush broken in our ascent. By this 
we found our trail. 

While I have been down east, the thunder-shower has 
followed suit, and has gone by without a sprinkle of rain. 
I have seen it away to the north, rushing up the Wabash, 
scattering its lightnings and its rain along the prairies. 
It has now entirely disappeared. Not a cloud is to be 
seen in the fair sky. The sunlight, unobstructed, 
reaches the earth far as my horizon extends, and one 
beautiful expanse of blue is spread over the whole 
heavens. How slight a circumstance may have governed 
the course of that cloud ! A breath of wind may have 
determined its direction ! And how many incidents of 
human life may have depended on the course of that 
shower! Those lightnings may have kindled unquench- 
able fires in some human dwelling, or may have scathed 
some human form, and laid it prostrate in death. That 
shower may have spread its fertilizing influence over the 
field of some despairing husbandman — despairing under 
the infiuence of heat and drouth — but now hoping and 
rejoicing in prospect of the abundant harvest. Circum- 
stances not less slight than a breath of air may give rise 
to events which influence our whole mortal career. Be- 
side the events that have happened to us, there are oth- 



280 AN INVITATION. 

ers which almost happened, and which would have 
marked for us a destiny of which we now dream not. 
From the highway of life there diverge many well-trod- 
den pathways, and the merest chance may govern the 
choice we make, or may even force us into one in prefer- 
ence to another. And though these pathways may seem 
scarcely to vary from the parallel, yet they lead over very 
different ground. One leads through smiling meadows 
and lovely vales, amidst flowery beauties, and the other 
over dark mountains, amidst gloom and desolation. On 
one shines the sunlight of hope, and on the other falls 
the deep shadow of despaii-. But, however much these 
paths may for a time diverge, yet all at last lead to one 
place — the grave. 

Would you, reader, if you could, have the superin- 
tendence of all the events which influence your fate in 
life? Would you trust your own knowledge or prudence 
to guide you through the dark labyrinth of human life? 
Alas ! in this we find no thread to guide us. We wander 
on, and stumble along, knowing little of what is before 
us. But there is an unseen hand that guides us. 
Though we are unconscious of its presence, yet it is ever 
stretched out to our aid. We need not, therefore, hes- 
itate. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow 
of death, we need fear no evil ; for Providence is ever 
near us. 

Another day and another night have passed, gentle 
reader, and I am here again for an hour. Time, how it 
passes ! and how silently, yet efi"ectually, it works its 
changes ! How imperceptibly has passed from my heart 
the buoyancy of early days ! and how insidiously the 
gray hairs have crept over my temple ! Time's hand is 
seen, not in wrath but in kindness, in the changes which 
are passing over this little bower, so dear to me. A 



AN INVITATION. 281 

rough pasture, incumbered by fallen trees, and over- 
grown by unsightly weeds, is transformed into a smooth 
lawn, with its velvety'' sod. Weeds have given place to 
lilies, and roses, and violets. Pines, firs, and spruce, 
transplanted from my native home on the Atlantic shore, 
a thousand miles and more away, are growing luxuriantly 
around me, throwing their shade over me, and forming a 
dense thicket, such as I used to admire and love in child- 
hood. Year after year they will increase and spread their 
evergreen foliage, till they make this little spot a gem 
amidst the surrounding scenery. But what will become 
of my bower, and of my trees, which begin to seem like 
my children, when I am here no more to watch and pro- 
tect them ? For here my vigilant eye may not always 
watch to keep oflF the intruder, who would thoughtlessly 
wrench away their branches, or the unruly animal that 
might destroy them. The beautiful pine that now waves 
and sighs mournfully in the wind over the grave of my 
child, may soon — alas ! none know how soon — play, in 
summer breeze and wintery storm, the dirge of him who 
planted it. Who, then, will come here at early morn, 
and at evening twilight, to watch over the trees, and the 
flowers, and the grave? Little do we know, when we 
plant a tree, who will gather its fruit, or sit under its 
shade. 

24* 



THE END. 



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